


hoppípolla

by but_seriously



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_seriously/pseuds/but_seriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you remember everything I told you, the night of the ball?"</p><p>She nods, the hair on the back of her neck standing up when her skin brushes against his. "Y-yes."</p><p>"Good." He straightens up, stretches lazily. "The world's going to need some of that light after I'm done with him."</p><p>Klaus looks up at the setting sun and with one breath, blows it out.</p><p>/ or what happens when, a hundred years later, Klaus still doesn't get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. but there's nowhere to hide

It's a hundred years later and they still haven't managed to figure out the art of developing flying cars, or anything remotely close to it.

Damon takes great pleasure in pointing this out over breakfast one morning, and Caroline makes a face when his back is turned. Before she can quite finish wrinkling her nose, Stefan points without really looking at her and says, "Jar."

" _What_?" Scowling, she whacks her fork against the jug of orange juice. "What is it this time?"

"Contradicting a clear-as-cut-glass fact," Damon taunts, already giving a ridiculous display of jazz hands.

"But I didn't even _say_ anyth—"

Damon clears his throat. "'Jeers, leers, shared looks, cutting remarks _and-slash-or_ passive aggressive comments fall under the category of contradiction'," he quotes, hand across his chest like he's reciting the Declaration of Independence or something. When Caroline's scowl deepens, he has the _galls_ to grin and say, "Hey: your rules, not mine."

She huffs and slumps down her chair. "Fine, whatever. Drop a dollar in the stupid thing."

"Already there, sister," Damon calls over his shoulder as he speeds to the living room. There's the tinny sound of metal clinking against metal: one by one, tantalizingly slow. He pokes his head back into the kitchen and says, "This also means you owe me half your savings account."

Caroline shoots a helpless look at Stefan (her puppy-dog-put defense mechanism kicking in), but he's not looking at her anymore, busy as he is with breakfast. When he's done flipping the bacon, he sits down, chuckling in amusement at Caroline listlessly pushing her eggs around on her plate. "I thought you'd have forgotten by now."

"Us? Forget? Never!" Damon cries, as though the very idea of it is scandalizing. He sneaks a fried tomato off of her plate and pops it into his mouth. Caroline wants to slug him across the face, use his own moves—that she's had to painstakingly beg him to teach her—on him, but decides against it because Damon's such a self-righteous twit when it comes to the Jar; she'd probably have to unload a fifty.

"Vampires." Stefan smiles wryly at Caroline and double-taps her temple. "We never forget."

The sad part about it is that it's totally true.

* * *

Caroline always makes sure Damon and Stefan are out of the apartment (to do whatever it is they do when they decide Caroline's just one girl too many) by the time the Witching Hour – as Damon calls it – rolls around. Caroline had rebuked him then, rolling her eyes and scoffing Isn't the Witching Hour like, midnight?

Damon had cheekily said, "Yeah, but whenever you need your alone time, which is _every single day_ at this _very_ hour, you get all… scary." He pauses, but because he's Damon and doesn't give a shit, adds: "Like Bonnie on her period."

Caroline chooses to respond by snapping a colorful string of choice words, and Stefan had pointedly shaken that stupid jar under her nose until she'd relinquished the last of her five dollars.

She's not really a pink sort of girl (not anymore, anyway), but she deems the pink of the sky as 'quaint', and when it gives way to a darker velvet color (which she struggles, but decides to call it 'soul-grazing') but when the blue is chased away by shades of purple and dusty white stars, she leans into the banister and doesn't chastise herself when she surmises that this must be how infinity feels like.

Different, she thinks.

Free and unconditional, she thinks.

Out of this world, she thinks.

She'll stay rooted there until the breeze starts to bite her shoulders, or until her ears pick up Damon and Stefan stumbling up the stairs after drinking too much. Then she'll give the railing one last tap, _see you tomorrow_ , and closes the French doors soundlessly behind her.

"We're out of wine," Caroline says absently as Damon enters the room, settling into the couch for a night of trashy soap operas. "And Grace called; she says you're fired. _Again_."

She flicks through the channels, but when there's no response, she hits mute and cranes her neck around. "Damon?"

Damon's gripping the chair in front of him, an odd look on his face. He tries to look at her, decides against it, and paces the room instead.

A line starts to form between Caroline's eyebrows as she flips around to face him fully. "Damon?" she piques.

He's facing the corner now, pinching the bridge of his nose. Caroline shuts off the TV and crosses her arm over her chest. "Damon. What the hell is up?"

He looks at her. She looks back at him.

Sighing, he cuts straight to the point. "I saw Rebekah." His feet start to move again. The tightness of her shoulders melt away, and she's about to say, You dumbass, you scared me half to death and if he'd said hi or if _Stefan_ had said hi, but it's the twist of his mouth and his incessant pacing that stops her, because no. No way, not now – it couldn't be possible…

Could it, Damon? Her eyes bear into Damon's, begging for an answer she doesn't want to hear, not really. _Could it?_ "You..." she begins, but her voice falters. She clears her throat, blinks rapidly, tries again. "So was she - did she... Was anyone else with her?" she manages to choke out.

Damon's resolute nod makes her face drain of color.

* * *

Stefan tries to convince her to get some fresh air, go shopping; eat a croissant or something, after he's tired of her skulking around the apartment for four days straight. Damon takes a different approach to things, choosing to bribe her with Stefan's credit card or 'forgetting' to buy the groceries. It doesn't work, because Caroline goes online shopping for charming printed sneakers and tipless lace gloves and orders take out instead.

Most of the time, she stays under her covers, rolled up like a sushi, and when an exasperated Stefan tries to force her out of bed, she shakes her head adamantly (she wonders if he can see the movement under all the blankets) and stays put.

"You're like a bear in hibernation," Stefan says, nudging the lump on the bed that she's become with his knee. "You need to get out. You're going to lose your job."

"Damon and I can be unemployed together."

"Damon is also trying to grow an unemployment beard."

"At least he's happy."

"You're forgetting that Damon has a one-track mind."

"You're forgetting what _he's_ done," she snarls into her sheets.

There's silence at last, and Caroline blinks furiously, ignores the hotness that seeps into the corners of her eyes. She knows Stefan has his serious vampire face on (she just knows it), and desperately wants him to go away: she really doesn't feel like talking right now.

 _Please leave_ , she begs silently, curling further into herself.

In true Salvatore style, he doesn't.

"He offered to buy me a drink yesterday," Stefan says conversationally as he sits by her side, propping an elbow on what he hopes isn't her face. "I let him."

"You _le_ —Stefan!" Her face pops out of her cave after a few moments, and she's spluttering as her hair traps her indignant shriek. "What – is – _wrong_ – with – you?"

Stefan raises his hands, easily deflecting her assaults. "I wanted to know why he's in town, Care." He grasps Caroline's wrists firmly. "Two Originals showing up after being AWOL for a hundred years – can't be a coincidence."

Caroline narrows her eyes at him, but lowers her pillow. "Did you find out what he wants?"

"He just wants to talk." Stefan's eyes flits to Caroline's then to the window in a flash.

"Just talk?"

Stefan sighs. "To you."

Caroline's back in her cave, pillows crammed tight over her ears. "Nuh uh, no way."

"Caroline."

"If he thinks he can just _waltz_ back into our lives after everything he's done, he's got another – another think coming — the _nerve_ of him to think he has so much _power_ – as if!"

"Car—"

She's jumped out of the bed, throwing the window open. "What, he thinks a hundred years is enough? That a drink is enough to make me _grovel_ at his feet to _let_ him apologize?"

"I didn't grovel," Stefan starts to say. "Caroline—"

Caroline slams her fist down on the windowsill. "That asshole's got some nerve."

" _Caroline_." Stefan has her against the window ledge, shaking her shoulders and unraveling her wits. She swallows a gasp and tries to wrench herself free, but Stefan's older and stronger and has her in a death grip. "Look to me, won't you?"

"Stefa—"

"Just _look_ at me, Caroline."

"You can't ma—"

" _Look at me_ —"

.

.

_circa 2012._

"—look! Oh come on, Caroline, look there! Quick!"

Caroline tears her eyes away from Tyler's just in time to see a streak of light, then nothing at all. Elena's looking put out; her cries had done nothing to pull the blonde's eyes away from Tyler's rigid shoulders and dark looks. Bonnie's sitting next to her, hand resting lightly on Caroline's, oblivious to her distraction.

"You missed it," Elena says flatly, and falls back against the blanket.

Caroline nudges Tyler lightly with her elbow, _Hey, I'm here, everything's alright_ , before saying brightly, "No I didn't, I saw it." Elena looks unconvinced, so she adds: "Flashy. Really pretty."

"You're a terrible liar," Elena sighs, propping herself up on her elbows.

Caroline tries again. "I saw its tail…?"

"Idiot," Damon says affectionately, knocking her lightly on the forehead. "Stars don't have tails."

"Shooting stars do," Caroline argues, and turns to her left. "Tyler – back me up here."

Tyler takes a second to look away from the night sky. "Yeah, sure—whatever," he says tersely.

"I'm pretty sure they do," she sings; hopes no one notices the strain to her voice. No one does, (thank God) because Elena's tossing a bag of chips to Stefan and Bonnie's arguing with Damon about the speed of light or something (Damon claims he can outrun it).

Caroline throws herself into the argument gratefully, complete with wild hand gestures and animated expressions. "The day you can outrun a _freaking_ shooting star," she declares at last, "is the day Stefan willingly lets you read his journals."

Stefan throws her a look at yet another jab at his habits while Elena giggles and protests, "But the chances of that happening is less likely than flying cars."

"Ah," Caroline raises a finger, raising an eyebrow knowingly. "You're wrong, intel tells me they're coming up with that sort of technology."

"Who's your intel, Matt Donovan?" Damon shoots, disgusted. "No way is that happening. I'd bet a quarter of my savings account that in a hundred years, we'd still be wearing out our tires on solid ground."

"I see your bet, and raise you _half_ my savings," Caroline says promptly. "A hundred years?"

"A hundred years." He whips his head around to make sure Stefan's listening. "Brother, jot this down: Dear Diary, today Caroline made a fruitless attempt of trying to outsmart Damon which will cost her dearly in a century."

"Not unless you forget," Bonnie says, but with reservations. She realizes with a pang that she has no place in this conversation: no way is she going to live to see the new millennia. Elena's silent as she retreats from the volley of words as well, but there's a smile on her face.

Bonnie continues, "A hundred years is a long time. I bet you're going to forget."

("Another bet!" Damon pumps his fist into the air. "Stefan, are you getting this?")

"Not likely," Stefan says. "Vampires, we never forget."

There's a snort, and the banter stops as they glance at Tyler, who's scoffing. "Doubt that."

Biting her lip, Caroline catches Damon and Stefan exchanging a look; Elena notices nothing and continues counting the stars, lips moving wordlessly. The whole night has been her attempt at getting them all to bond, rebutting all of Caroline's attempts at trying to get out of it.

Tyler just got back, she protests as Bonnie ushers her from her bedroom.

"He'll live," Elena says, rifling through Caroline's closet for her coat. "Which will it be, navy or grey?"

Sighing, Caroline reaches for her grey pea coat. "I don't want him to be alone tonight."

"Then invite him along." Shrugging, Elena jingles her car keys and Bonnie waits for Caroline's answer, eyebrow raised to shoot off any more negatives.

Caroline lets out a sharp breath. "Fine. Just let me text him."

.

.

Bonnie has to leave early, and all the easy laughter disappears along with her. Now they're all sitting in a tense circle, Stefan and Damon talking in voices so low even her ears can't pick it up. She tries nudging closer, but Damon just gives her a _look_.

"I'm going for a walk," Tyler announces after the silence stretches out for too long. He stands, and Caroline scrambles to her feet.

"I'll come with you!" she chirps.

"Actually—" Stefan starts, but Tyler beats him to it.

"I kind of wanna be alone right now, Caroline."

And she winces. It's not the way he shoots her down, but the way he says her name: rolling the R and heavy with annoyance. She shrugs, _Whatever; if that's what you want_ , and reaches for the marshmallows. When Tyler disappears into the tree line, Stefan's immediately hounding her.

"What were you thinking, Care?" he whispers urgently, shaking her shoulders for good measure. "You know he's not nearly stable enough—"

"You don't know that," she snaps back, shaking his hands off. Elena's staring at all of them with morbid curiosity.

"Guys?" she asks. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, 'Lena," Caroline says quickly. " _Stefan_ here is just a little hungry."

"He's not the only one who's hungry." Damon's on his feet suddenly, eyes alert and feet picking silently through the frozen grass and dried leaves. "Stefan." He quirks his jaw at his brother; Stefan immediately wraps his arms around Caroline, crushing her to the ground as Damon races off into the woods.

"Hey— _Stefan_!" Elena's on her feet now, eyes wide as she watches Caroline snarling and struggling against the older vampire's vice grip. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Making sure she doesn't do anything she'll regret," Stefan says firmly, hand clamped over Caroline's mouth. He winces as he feels her bite.

In the distance, the woods shiver and a wolf howls.

Caroline lets loose a soundless scream into Stefan's palm.

.

.

She remembers a time when things were different, when she could step into her house (her own _home_ ) without having to worry if she's remembered to lock the door behind her; when she could walk to school without having to strain her ears for another set of footsteps shadowing her.

Usually (as of late, anyway) she'd never be hanging around the park at dusk; she'd be curled on her windowsill, eyes on the shadows dancing across her drawn curtains. Waiting.

Hiding.

Today, she decides, she wants to be found. With the blood-red sun hanging low in the distance and her nails jagged from all her nervous biting, she waits. The toes of her boots scuff the rough sand beneath her feet as she lets the wind push the swing lightly to and fro—until she realizes it's no ordinary wind.

Klaus stands before her, his casual stance and long-sleeved Henley masking the hum of danger that always seems to charge the air around him. He runs a cold finger down her cheek, but before she can slap it away he's already seated in the swing next to her.

"Not safely tucked in bed, Caroline?"

She doesn't answer, and he lets out a breath of a chuckle. "They say it's going to snow sometime this week."

She grits her teeth, doesn't want to talk to him; _definitely_ doesn't want to discuss the weather. Klaus is looking at her, almost mockingly, so she decides to just ask him: "What's wrong with Tyler?"

"Nothing I can't fix." And then he smiles, a smile that chills her fingers and dries her mouth. She wraps her hands tighter around the rusty chains, stilling them. She wants to ask him what that means, but one look at Klaus tells her he's not going to humor her for much longer. "Is he going to get better?"

She doesn't mean for her voice to sound so soft, but it does.

There's a pulse in Klaus's jaw as he watches her, watches as her lips come dangerously close to trembling and how she's holding herself together (like she's falling apart, tearing at the seams) and he abruptly unfolds himself from the swing. He's moving smoothly; no creaks and most certainly no fumbles. A thousand years of patience and skill wrapped around one movement. "Only time will tell, sweetheart."

He's tilting his face downwards, closer and closer—her breath hitches when she realizes they're nose to nose.

"Do you remember everything I told you, the night of the ball?"

She nods, the hair on the back of her neck standing up when her skin brushes against his. "Y-yes."

"Good." He straightens up, stretches lazily. "The world's going to need some of that light after I'm done with him."

Klaus looks up at the setting sun and with one breath, blows it out.

.

.

.

**tbc**


	2. from these bones, from my mind

There are many things Damon Salvatore would gladly (read: without being threatened or bribed) do for Caroline Forbes.

Help her choose an outfit (read: stand around in some boutique for hours on end) to scare off the bitch trying to steal her much-deserved promotion? "Wear the navy pencil skirt – your ass looked great," he'd enthused.

Check out (read: do extensive background research and minimum stalking if required) the new guy she's dating to make sure he's not some sadistic centuries-old vampire? "On it."

Make sure Stefan isn't alone (read: hide all the liquor and keep him away from fire, wood and sunlight) when he's in one of his pining moods? "Just tell me where The Notebook is," he'd sigh, before enduring the painful, uncomfortable silence through the kissing-in-the-rain scenes and his brother's broodiness.

Waking up early on Saturdays (read: waking up _obscenely_ early on Saturdays) to go grocery shopping? "You are surely the spawn of devil," he'd moaned into his pillow as Caroline yanks his curtain apart to let in the cumbersome light.

He's strolling through the open air market at _eight_ in the morning on a _Saturday_ , begrudgingly glancing down at the grocery list Caroline's scrawled for him. The grocery's supposed to be his 'thing' (Stefan has to make sure the apartment is clean at all times and Caroline… well, they're not too sure, but she always seems to have something to do or somewhere to go when they ask what _her_ thing is). Established since the early days of them first sharing an apartment, Caroline says it's sacred, and he shouldn't question it – which he does do, every single time Caroline hands him The List.

The List basically made sure everything in their life is in working order (or at least Caroline had told him sympathetically when he looked crestfallen at having to handle this task for the rest of his life). The List makes living easier, she had insisted, _and for that, I thank you_.

Living with Caroline means an endless supply of chocolate in the fridge, scented candles and various oddities cluttering up the bathroom, throw pillows in every corner of their apartment and bottles and bottles (and _bottles_ ) of wine—

( _Merlot,_ she'd growled at him that morning, eye mask still perched on her tousled mess of hair. She's looking particularly grouchy. "And don't give me your bullshit about being broke. I saw you sneaking out Stefan's credit card.")

—to be drank daily, because Caroline claims it makes her feel like a "real Parisian" (he doesn't have the heart to tell her _real Parisians_ don't refer to themselves as real Parisians), especially when she smokes (or tries to, at any rate) a Gauloise on the terrace come evening time.

Damon spies a nondescript bottle of wine and grabs it, pays with a quick _merci_ , smirking to himself as he props the bottle over his shoulder. Vampire Barbie can be really pretentious when it comes to her wine, which is why sometimes he takes great pleasure into switching cheap ones into the expensive. It's not like she can actually tell the difference, anyway. Not after two glasses.

After three glasses, she'll start dancing around the apartment, the sundresses she likes wearing so much floating around her thighs like a dream.

(It irks him when – for some inane reason – Stefan always makes sure Caroline's sitting down, dress trapped firmly to her sides by the time Damon eagerly hands her glass number four.)

 _I'm living the Parisian dream_ ; she'll warble after her fourth glass. After her sixth, she'll sometimes collapse next to him on the couch, whispering something like _I'm beautiful and strong and full of light_ before he tips the last of her wine into her mouth: going out cold like the weak drinker she is, and will always be.

Stefan frowns at this, but Damon just shrugs. At least one of them is keeping her happy.

Sometimes he'd carry her gingerly back to her bed, but most of the time he lets her stay, enjoying the tickle of her hair on his neck and her apple-white arms around his torso. He'll tuck a strand of her golden hair behind her ear and give her shoulder a fond rub before switching to The Bold and the Beautiful (the 275th Generation), because she'd never let him live it down had she been awake and sober.

* * *

Damon whistles Moon River (Caroline makes him watch Breakfast at Tiffany's every time she feels nostalgic for a time she wasn't even alive for – which is every other weekend) as his shoes thud down on the cobblestones, and he thinks it's oddly fitting that they had chose to start over in Paris – everything's brighter in Paris, so Caroline had reasoned. She's right, though: even through the rain the sun manages to shine; every crevice of the city seems illuminated, and for once he doesn't mind that he still has to pick up Caroline's laundry and more ink for Stefan – he even walks to the very edge of the market to buy Caroline's favourite Edam cheese.

(Mostly because it always makes her want to drink more wine because they go so well together, but still.)

He's deciding between Camembert or Brie for Stefan (didn't hurt to soften his brother up some) when he feels the tap on his shoulder, and the faltering _Excusez-moi?_

"Oui?" Damon responds. She's a pretty little thing; red hair and blue eyes blinking the warm rain away. One of those cheap tourist-trap cameras is looped in the crook of her elbow, and Damon masks a smile as she bites her lip and garbles, " _Pouvez-vous—_ um… _Prendre_ …?" she trails off, flushing.

He considers letting her go on, eyebrow raised in amusement.

Instead, he holds out his hand and smirks, "It would be my pleasure."

"Oh, you speak English! Thank God." The redhead practically melts in relief and gushes, "Thanks, by the way. It's my first time here—" She hands him the camera and looks over her shoulder. "Hold on. Gonna go get my fr—Todd!"

Damon's busy working out the simple mechanics of the press-here-dummy camera as Red and her friend pose artfully around a giant wheel of cheese. "Right, I think I've figured th…"

His face pales. The flash goes off.

Todd grins at Damon and uncurls his stiff fingers from the camera. "Thanks!"

Red flutters her fingers at him and turns in a rush, not before saying, "Our bus is leaving, so…" She spares him one last grateful look, and with a fumbled shake of the hands she's off.

And now Damon's pushing through the throngs of people, trying to pick out the locals from the tourists – he catches a glimpse of red hair.

"Hey— _wait!_ "

The girl's gone.

The rain falls down in sheets of blue and grey.

.

.

_circa 2012_

It's something Elena just can't fathom. Never has she seen Caroline and Bonnie in complete agreement with one another, with no quips or passive-aggressive remarks being thrown at each other.

The vampire and the witch are actually sitting quietly (with the exception of their bated breath, which Elena finds extremely distracting) on her windowsill, watching the boys tackle each other to the ground in the light rain that's been going on and off for the past few days. They're supposed to be finishing their Social Studies project - plus Bonnie wasn't sure how to tackle the college application essays - but had dropped that in lieu of Matt taking off his shirt to whip it at Tyler's face.

"Hot," is all Bonnie says, and Caroline can't help but agree.

"Come _on_ , guys," Elena calls from her bed, rolling her eyes. "Bonnie, in case you've forgotten you're the one who needed help for your Yale application."

"Shh." Caroline raises a finger, voice low like she's narrating a wildlife documentary. "God, just look at them, 'Lena. You can count their packs from here. Just— _wow_."

"It's just them throwing a football around," Elena mutters, but Caroline drags her from the bed and presses the brunette to the window.

"Oh," is all she can say.

Bonnie smirks. "Oh is right."

"And another reason why it's great to be Elena Gilbert—lucky bitch lives right across from Mystic Fall's hottest quarterback," Caroline states flatly, and falls back against Elena's bed. Arm slung over her eyes, she wails, "And said quarterback is the only one who manages to get a smile on my boyfriend's face."

"Aw, Caroline," Bonnie says, dragging herself from the window (with difficulty) and flopping down next to the blonde. "He just needs time with the guys, get back to normalcy. Breaking out of a sire bond's sure to drain someone."

"Yeah, Care," Elena agrees, turning away from the sight of Tyler grinning wolfishly at Matt. "In fact, I've never actually heard of anyone breaking out of the bond, _ever_. And we did all that research, too."

"I'm sure you're right," Caroline mumbles. "It's just… it feels different." She catches Elena's eyes and turns away, burying herself deeper into her pillows. It's an unspoken agreement among all of them—especially Tyler and Caroline—to not mention the Incident at the clearing last week. There's nothing wrong with him, she had kept insisting. _He was looking for a bunny but got sidetracked by that human_ , she had said.

Bonnie's hand on her shoulder shakes Caroline out of her reverie.

"I know," she says, brushing Caroline's hair back from her face. "Give it a few days, I'm sure everything's fine."

Sighing, Caroline sits up, brushing her hair out of her glossed lips. "I hope so. How do we write our personal statements again?"

Before Elena can respond, they hear a muffled cry from outside. Rushing back to the window, the girls press their noses against the cold glass.

What they see chills them to the bone.

Before Bonnie's even finished gasping, Elena's already out of the room in a flash with Caroline following closely behind her. Naturally, Caroline reaches Matt first. He's doubled over on the wet grass, mud on his shirt and hands clutching his neck. His face is pale, so pale, washed out by the drizzling rain.

"M-Matt?" Blood stains her hands, and she whips her head around to look at Tyler, eyes widening in horror. "Tyler—"

"It was an accident," he blurts out, backing away. There's red smudges around his mouth, like he'd cut himself while shaving and continued to cut himself, and he looks close to just melting away with the rain.

"Oh my God." Elena drops to her knees, hands pressed over her mouth. "Matt—Mattie, you okay?"

Bonnie's whispering some sort of spell, eyes shut tight while Matt's blood stains the front of Elena's sweater.

"He was so excited, so pumped," Tyler's moaning, his hands trembling uncontrollably. "All that blood just rushing and pounding in his veins—"

Caroline looks sick; she has Tyler's shaking body wrapped in her arms now, but she's chanting in her head, over and over again, _stop, shut up, I don't want to hear this; stop, shut up, please, God, no more, Tyler, please—_

"Mattie—" Elena's choking back a sob as Matt struggles to breathe, struggles to remain conscious. "Care—your blood—" Elena swallows heavily, swiping at her running nose. "Your blood can heal him. Right? It's just a bite—your blood—"

"No," Caroline whispers, closing her eyes, wishing it were all a dream. "I can't."

"You can't?" Elena looks down at Matt, who's trying to smile, but his body's convulsing. She flashes back to when Caroline had been bitten—she hadn't even lasted half an hour before passing out, and Caroline's supernatural, Caroline's a _vampire_ —she sucks in a shaky breath. "Just… hang in there, Bonnie's going to heal you, alright sweetie?"

Matt visibly brightens at Elena's sweet words and nods weakly, even managing a weak smile. Elena vows to call him that more often, maybe even honey cupcake angelface, if he'd just stay conscious. Just five more minutes, Matt. Okay, that was great; you did great—another five okay? She begs for five more minutes, and then another, and turns a tear strained face to her friend. "Do something, Bonnie!" she pleads, muscles quivering from holding up Matt, but the grip she has on him suggests that she's never going to let go.

"She can't," Tyler says, and he sounds so empty Caroline shivers. "He's as good as dead."

 _Stop—shut up, please, no more, Tyler, stop, no_. Her blue eyes snap open. "Klaus."

* * *

"Paris, Stefan?"

Stefan shrugs, setting his tumbler down on the dark mahogany of the bar. "She's always wanted to come."

"With you and Damon, of all people." The hybrid shakes his head, downing yet another drink in one gulp.

"Me and Damon," Stefan repeats agreeably, if only to fill the air around them with words. Klaus' dancing fingers cast shadows on the bar top and the lights burn with a stronger intensity as thunder rumbles the windowpanes of the bar. He's not sure why he's there for the second day in a row, but he does know why he didn't turn down Klaus' offer of _Let me buy you a drink_.

He's not stupid. He hasn't forgotten.

Stefan's still shaking out rain droplets from his hair, but Klaus looks as dry as if he'd strolled inside on a sunny day. Sitting next to Stefan, he looks every bit the dark prince to Stefan's white knight.

"How long have you stayed here?" Klaus asks, and there's a little too much saccharine in his voice, too much teeth in his smile. Stefan just mutters a reply ("A few years, give or take."). He's not uncomfortable in the hybrid's presence—he's just tired of waiting around for whatever bomb that Klaus is bound to drop.

"Did you enjoy Italy?"

Stefan's eyes narrow. "How did you…"

Klaus just motions for another drink, continuing, "And a few years in New York before that, and then there was Munich and — just a few weeks in Tokyo?" His lips twist into a smirk. "Couldn't handle the sashimi?"

Stefan takes a measured sip of his drink and doesn't answer. He swallows with difficulty—his throat's turned to cotton.

"Did you ever find what you were looking for?" Klaus tilts his glass to look down on the whiskey inside, the amber liquid threatening to spill but never does. "Obviously not. Must be why you're in Paris, aren't you? To try again?"

There's something about his voice… "You know." Stefan's knuckles are white.

"Of course I know, Stefan," Klaus sneers. "You didn't think I spent the last hundred years in a coffin, did you?"

Stefan doesn't ask how he knows – because let's face it: Klaus _always_ knows – and instead chooses to ask, "Why now?"

"Why do you think?"

He doesn't answer immediately; mulls it over with his scotch, but then—his eyes widen, his fingers slip, and his drink spills over the lip of the glass. "No."

Klaus' smile only widens.

"Goddamnit Klaus." Stefan grinds his teeth together and nudges his glass away, eyes boring holes into Klaus'. "What do you want?"

"Caroline," the hybrid replies simply.

"I tried that, she doesn't want anything to do with you," Stefan hisses. "Not after what you've do—"

"Not after what _you_ asked me to do," Klaus corrects, the threat in his voice looming over them and spreading a chill through the oak-paneled room. "Or have you forgotten the little deal we had a hundred years ago? As I recall—vampires never forget."

"No," Stefan says stiffly, wishing the bar would just swallow the hybrid whole. "I remember."

"Caroline doesn't know, does she?" Klaus' look of satisfaction changes to a smug one when Stefan shakes his head 'no', glaring the whole time. "Unless you want Caroline finding out her _dear_ Stefan isn't as sacred as she once thought, you're going to bring her to me."

Stefan knows how this goes, he's been a pawn in Klaus' games more times than he can remember, but he finds it in himself to challenge: "And if I don't?"

"I'll kill the doppelganger myself." Klaus drains his drink and sweeps out of the room, and Stefan lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in.

When he's sure Klaus is out of earshot, he pulls out his cell phone. "Come on, Damon," he mutters as the dial tone fills his ear. "Where the hell are you?"

.

.

 _circa 201_ 3

"You found me." Damon grins up at a sympathetic Caroline, his tie gone and his suit wrinkled. There's icing smeared in his right fist and a nearly empty bottle of scotch in his left. She tries not to notice the red rims around his eyes or the smell of alcohol coming off of him in waves or the way he doesn't even try to sit up anymore—she just gently pries his fingers off the bottle and sits next to him, her dress falling softly around her ankles.

"You smell like the sun," Damon mumbles happily, drunkenly, as he lets his head fall onto Caroline's shoulder. "Can I have that back now?"

"Not a chance." Caroline holds the bottle out of Damon's reach and leans back against the damp bricks of the courthouse. She wipes away the smears of cake from Damon's chin and lifts it up. "This is pretty pathetic, even for you."

Damon grunts a reply and turns away. "It's totally expected of me, though. You gotta admit."

"Yeah, I guess it kind of is," she says, sighing. "It was a beautiful reception, Damon. I wish you could've been there."

"I was there," Damon insists weakly, and makes a swipe for his drink. Caroline doesn't resist this time, and Damon takes a tumble against her lap, where he stays.

"Not the way I would've liked you to," Caroline says evenly. She runs feather light circles in his hair, and feels him exhale through the material of her pale yellow dress. "Not the way she would have liked."

"Enough, Caroline," Damon says, and closes his eyes. "Just… don't. Not now. Not ever. Stefan's already given me the tough luck pep talk."

Caroline says nothing. Flowers fall from trees, and the late autumn sun cast halos around them as they gaze out at the lake. If Tyler were here, she thinks, he would've liked it.

If Tyler were here, he would have let her pull him to the dance floor, joined her in making fun of Alaric's dopey proud-papa smile, twirled her again and again and again until they both forget how to breathe.

But he's not, and the only person who'd actually asked her to dance had also been the person no one had bothered to invite. That never stopped Klaus from coming, lingering in the corner like the creep he is, burning holes in the back of Caroline's head throughout the whole ceremony.

If Tyler were here, he'd tell him to fuck off and let them have this one moment of happiness.

If Tyler were here.

"Do you…" she begins tentatively, fingers still in Damon's hair. "Do you think Tyler's alright?"

"I'm sure he is, Blondie." He's closing her eyes as she plays with his hair, and she decides she likes Damon this way—not the whole "woe is me, life sucks then you die" part, but the parts where they actually talk and he smiles and they have a moment Stefan deems worthy to journal about.

"I miss him," she says quietly.

"I know." There's a pause. "Sorry for making Stefan crush you to the ground that one time."

"God, that feels like forever ago." Caroline feels the corners of her lips quirk up into a faraway smile. "I'm over it."

"And for going all Rambo on Tyler in the woods."

"Oh, trust me," she says, and bites down hard on her lower lip to stop the hot prickling in the corners of her eyes. "That's not the worse of my problems."

"Then what is?"

Again, she doesn't answer immediately. She gazes out over the water once again, before looking down at Damon. "Do you ever want to just run away?"

Damon's breath is warm and even against her lap, so she knows he's considering—really considering—her question. "All the time," he says after a while.

* * *

Caroline blinks, still in a haze of dreams and goose down pillows. She brushes some hair out of her mouth and tries to sit up, the dark sky casting strange shadows across her bedroom wall as the rain pounds down around her. Nestling back into the sheets, she curls herself into a ball—her default position these days—and concentrates on the sound of rain. It feels intimate on so many levels, but for some reason she can't draw any coziness from the room. Her eyes trail to her bedside table where her MacBook Lighter Than Air v3.0 (talk about original) is resting. She'd been watching Roman Holiday—because it's been so long since she'd dreamt up a fairytale for herself—but the movie's over and the screensaver on her laptop is flashing on.

Tyler appears on screen, and she knows if Stefan were here he'd just shake his head or something.

"I forgot how fit that boy was."

Caroline jumps a mile, a shriek ripping from her lips, and she looks around the room wildly to see Rebekah outlined in silver against her window.

"H-how'd you get in?" she asks, hoping Rebekah doesn't notice the tremor in her voice.

Rebekah traipses across the room, nonchalantly tracing a finger against Caroline's sheet thread count and studying random knick knacks. "I compelled your landlord to sign over the lease to your apartment," she says easily. "Actually, I don't think I even had to compel him, but I was short on time."

Oh shit, Caroline swallows. "You could have called ahead, like any sane person would do. A hello in advance would have been nice."

"I figured I'd surprise you, love." Rebekah nudges Caroline's closet door closed with her foot. "For old time's sake."

Sighing, Caroline traipses out of bed and flips the lights on—golden light floods the room. "Why are you here?"

"It seems my brother's desperate to get a hold of you." Rebekah rolls her eyes, folding herself with easy grace into Caroline's rocking chair, crossing her legs. "It took my ingenuity to get you alone, of course."

Scoffing, Caroline blows her bangs out of her eyes. "That wasn't ingenuity—Damon had errands to run and Stefan's at work. It's called routine."

"So routine would bring them home at about… what time exactly?"

Caroline decides to humour her. "If you had any ounce of Erin Brokovich in you, you'd know they're usually back by n…" Her voice trails off as she realizes it's half past six, and they're supposed to be back two hours ago.

Rebekah's grin widens. "Exactly. Apparently Damon got sidetracked, and Stefan… well, he's having a drink with Nik."

"God, if Damon's hitting on that butcher girl aga—" Caroline starts to splutter, but stops. "Wait. Stefan's with Klaus?"

"Oh, yes. You see, Klaus has Stefan crushed in the palm of his hand as expected, but it's you we're worried about." Rebekah's smile twitches as she reaches for her handbag by her feet. "You and your stubborn little head. So I came bearing gifts."

She tosses a silver box at Caroline, who catches it deftly. She keeps her expression neutral as she lifts the lid off the box—but can't quite stop her eyes from widening. She always did have a weakness for Chanel. "I—wow."

"Wow indeed. Cost a right fortune, too." Rebekah stands and heads for the window. "Mind you wear that tonight, won't you love?"

"Wear… wait—what?"

"Don't worry, Stefan will fill you in," Rebekah smirks. She looks around the room one last time, and says, despite herself: "I don't think I need to remind you to be careful, Caroline. You do know my brother better than most people do."

"Whatever, thanks for the unsolicited advice." Caroline raises an eyebrow expectantly. "Now leave."

The air in the room changes, and Rebekah takes a step back from the window. Caroline tries not to gulp, but how does one act accordingly when an Original takes a menacing step towards you?

"We used to have such fun together, Caroline." Rebekah's smile leaves and is replaced by a stony expression—so much like Klaus, Caroline notes, a little struck. "What happened?"

A lot of things, she wants to say. You leaving. Your half-assed goodbye. You choosing Klaus. You choosing him again and again and again disregarding everything he's done to us—to me. But Caroline takes a deep breath and says instead, "Your brother ruined the boy I loved. You left with him. That's what happened."

Rebekah narrows her eyes. "You left too, and you took Damon and Stefan with you. At least I had the decency to say goodbye."

"Oh, don't pretend like you actually care," Caroline snorts. "Just—I have no plans on getting entangled in this stupid scheme you and Klaus are cooking up. And I think you're overstaying your visit, if we can even call it that."

Rebekah doesn't respond, just makes her way back to the window. Before she actually leaves, she turns around one last time.

"And Caroline," Rebekah notes a little sadly, "he was only ever just a boy."

She's gone before Caroline can slam the window in her face.

.

**tbc**

.


	3. it's broken inside--i'm a man and a child

_circa 2012_

The Original Mansion was her very own Jane Austen fantasy come to life—vast green lawns, ivy inching tastefully by the floor-to-ceiling windows, never daring to creep further; smooth white walls she loved to run her fingers against as they speed down the halls towards one of Rebekah's many shoe rooms.

In the late afternoons, when she and Rebekah turn endless cartwheels across the rolling greens, she fancies herself as Elizabeth Bennett. When Kol goads her into throwing pebbles at Elijah and Finn practicing their sword fighting from around the corner of the house, she giggles only the way Marianne Dashwood would. And when Klaus guides her to a secluded corner of the gardens — eyes forward, hands lingering towards hers that lay stiff at her sides: not touching, _never_ touching _—_ and draws her while she tends to the sages Finn seems to have an odd attachment to, she dares to let herself feel like Emma Woodhouse. Worldly, spirited, beautiful.

The way Klaus lets his eyes linger on her face—

(always her face, never her body, never the way Matt runs his hands down her hips or the way Tyler lets his hands roam all over— _all over_ —all over)

—makes her feel worldly, spirited, beautiful.

Now it's nothing but a dark house bleeding into the evening sky.

Just that.

She tilts her head back, as far as her neck allows, and still she can't see where the house ends and sky begins from her place by the wooden double doors that make up the mansion's main entryway.

She takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell, fervently hoping Klaus wouldn't be the one to answer—he'd probably close the door in her face and it would take her twice as long to try and explain, and by that time Matt would be—Matt would be dea—

The door opens. "Caroline?"

She doesn't give time to explain, just pushes past Rebekah into the foyer, shifting from foot to foot and trying to keep from biting her lower lip. Her hair's frizzy and her cheeks are wet, but not from the rain.

Rebekah's giving her a look, and Caroline doesn't have time to decipher which one it is. Rebekah had a multitude of 'looks' for Caroline, and from the hundreds of those looks used a handful of them on a daily basis. The one she uses the most is skepticism—like when she wanted Elena to be pushed down to the bottom of the pyramid but Caroline had _insisted_ she be second tier with the Original. There was also the look she has for the times she thinks the dresses Caroline's just tried on makes her look like an expired meringue but holds back, because Caroline's looking far too excited about it. There's also the look she throws around when Klaus and Caroline are in another one of their "spats", as she calls it, and she's stuck being the messenger.

The look she's giving her now is a mixture of that and Rebekah Skepticism as she rests a light hand on her hip and says, "I don't think he wants to see you right now."

Caroline lets out a laugh, bitter and short. "Trust me, the feeling's mutual. But I don't have time for stupid mind games right now, Tyler—"

"I don't think he wants to see you right now," Rebekah repeats with an edge to her voice, and steps closer. "Especially if it's about the Lockwood boy."

"It's not about that!" Caroline explodes, sidestepping Rebekah to trip up the stairs. "I need Klaus—Tyler bit Matt, Klaus is the only one—where is he?"

In a flash, Rebekah's in front of Caroline, a mortified expression on her face. "Tyler bit Matt?"

Before Caroline can even finish nodding, Rebekah's already grabbed her arm and started to pull her down a long winding hall, down another flight of steps and a few corners, until they're finally standing at the mouth of Klaus' art room.

His man cave, Caroline had giggled once, and Klaus had actually smiled at that.

"Nik," Rebekah calls out urgently, and Klaus appears from behind a large canvas, a dark smear on his chin and an annoyed look on his face.

"What is it _now_ , Be—" He stops, staring at Caroline. He seemed to have an internal struggle of wanting to throw her out on her ass, or make her stand still enough so he can capture the look on her face with his oil paints. He turns to his sister instead, with a measured, "Could you give us a minute?"

Rebekah nods curtly and leaves, but not without shooting Caroline's hands a pointed look. Caroline immediately stops picking at her nails and let her hands fall to her side rather uselessly, because the way Klaus is looking at her is making her want to shove all her fingers between her teeth and clamp down on them.

But because it's Klaus, and because he's _still_ staring, Caroline forces herself to look him in the eyes. "I—"

"If this is you coming to apologize for choosing him over me," Klaus begins offhandedly, "I'm already over it." He goes back to his canvas and picks up a fresh brush, running his thumb over the fine bristles. "Already over _you_ , in fact."

"This is hardly about us, if there ever was an us, which renders your assumption null and void," Caroline replies heatedly. "This isn't about you. It's not even about me. It's about… it's about Tyler—"

The canvas Klaus had been working on is suddenly off its easel and crashing against the wall behind her. He's still standing at the same spot, calm as ever, but his voice is low and his eyes are on fire as he says, "I thought I told you never to say his name around me anymore."

Caroline swallows. "Technically, _you_ brought him up first." The way he's looking at her, she almost forgets why she's here in the first place.

Almost.

She takes a deep (an unnecessary breath) and says: "Tyler, he—he bit Matt." She manages to say the last part without choking on her words, a feat in itself.

Klaus seems to have calmed down considerably since his lash out. He taps the brush against his chin and steps closer to her, his feet casual and light. "And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do about that?"

"Klaus." She sends him a sharp look, her blue eyes bearing into his. "He'll die."

"Such is life, Caroline," he says, now standing in front of her. "People are born, then they live, and then they die. For someone who so insists on clinging on to humanity..." His voice trails off as he tucks a stray curl behind her ear, "you seem to have a hard time accepting that."

Caroline brushes his hand away impatiently. "Come on, Klaus. I never ask you for anything—"

"Except that one time where you asked I stay away from you," he interjects, circling her. She has no choice but to turn with him, keeping up the eye contact. "Demanded, in fact. After everything my family has offered you. After everything I've done for you. I don't take lightly to people who've disappointed me."

Her ankles twist around each other and she starts to stumble towards him, stopping just in time to reach her hands out to grab him by the collar of his shirt, knowing the implications of it. "Please, Klaus," she says, swallowing a sob. "Matt's one of the few people I have left—" her voice breaks and his eyes darken. "I can't just let him die. Just—" She stops and takes a deep breath, willing herself to look him in the eye. "I'll do anything."

There's a silence that Caroline had expected as the hybrid mulls this over in his mind, and she twists her fingers further into his shirt. "Please," she says again, her voice a whisper.

"Fine," he spits, and wrenches way from her to grab one of the empty glass jars dotting his art table. He bites into his wrist savagely and lets his blood trickle down into the jar while Caroline watches, transfixed into silence.

He hands her the jar and pulls his hands away as soon as she reaches for it— not touching, _never_ touching—and she thanks him breathlessly before practically running out the room.

"And Caroline?"

She pauses, one foot out the door, whitened knuckles grazing the doorframe.

"I expect you to honour your part of the bargain," he says levelly to. He doesn't expect her to look back, but she does.

"I'm sure you'll make me work for it," she says, and smiles. Hard and bitter, like the rest of the words she'd said to him the minute that damned Tyler managed to break his sire bond.

"Oh, that I will." He smirks, running a slow finger across his lips. Caroline lets out a scoff and turns on her heels.

* * *

"It looks like it's going to jump out at me."

"Damon."

"No, seriously Stefan. Look at it, just hanging there, all..." Damon twists his mouth into a grimace like it's a bad taste in his mouth, "Sparkly." He's leaning forward in his seat, eyes locked onto the black sequined number that Caroline's brandishing at them, a violent look in her eyes—

(The same violent If-we-were-on-Titanic-I-would-sink-this-ship-with-my-Steve-Madden-boots look she's had ever since Damon (averting his eyes) and Stefan (shifting from foot to foot guiltily) stepped into the apartment.)

—and as if he isn't helping enough, Damon continues: "Count on Klaus to choose something so dark and seductive."

Caroline stares at the dress dubiously. "You think it looks seductive?"

Damon just throws an unhelpful _no shit_ look, so she turns to the younger Salvatore in her rocking chair instead. "Stefan?" she asks, a hint of a plea in her voice.

Stefan shrugs. "Klaus has good taste. You'll look stunning."

"I'm not wearing it," Caroline announces abruptly, stuffing it back into her closet. "And I'm not going _anywhere_ with him."

"Caroline," Stefan says in that tone of his, that very tone he used when Bonnie made her her Lapis Lazuli ring. "It pains me to say this, and I'm sorry. If there was another way I wouldn't even think of making you do this, but there isn't, and you have to."

"Two very legit reasons to wear a slinky, seductive dress and toast the night away with an evil thousand-year-old hybrid," Damon quips, raising two fingers. "Also, you'd look totally banging in it. I say go ahead, find out what he wants."

"Actually..." Stefan sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "It's more like what _we_ want."

Damon and Caroline are both immediately on his case, arms crossed to display authority, and Caroline's even gotten Damon's crazy eye thing down to a T.

Stefan has to roll his eyes at that. "Who's the bad cop?"

"Both of us," Caroline says curtly. "Sit down and spill your heart."

"Let's start from the very start," Damon follows up, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you two..." Stefan blinks at them, a little dumbfounded. "Are you two _seriously_ quoting OneRepublic at me?"

"Arguably one of the best bands of our time. What's not to love?" Damon says (a little indignantly). "But seriously, brother. What does Klaus know that you know that we so obviously don't?"

The younger Salvatore looks from Damon to Caroline, then back again, before taking a deep breath. "Klaus knows about the doppelganger."

Lets it out.

Caroline's eyes widen, but Damon waves a hand, going back to perch against Caroline's bed. "Been there, haven't done that, totally planning on it." He raises a high-five-ready hand at Caroline. "Up top."

(Caroline ignores it. Damon looks put out.)

"How come I'm always the last one to find out?" she growls, stamping into her walk-in-closet and slamming the doors behind her. She yanks the dress on, snarling and groaning the whole way—

("Are you sure you don't have our landlord hidden in there?" Damon calls from behind the closed door. "Kinda sounds like you're having sex.")

—and storms out again, the dress billowing softly around her ankles. "I feel like a slut," she declares.

"In the best way possible." Damon bobs his head in approval. Stefan just rolls his eyes again.

"So tell me, how did _you_ know?" Stefan turns to his brother, a frown on his face. "It took us all these years to find her, and suddenly Klaus does and you're not even worried?"

"Oh, I met her this morning," Damon says airily, already grabbing Caroline's pillow to deflect the coat hanger she's throwing at him.

"You _what_?"

Stefan sits up, face aglow with anger. "Damon! You didn't think to mention this earlier?"

" _Relax_ , guys." Damon sits back up, pillow still held in place, because Caroline's missing Witching Hour for this nice little powwow, so he imagines her mood isn't in the best of places. "She's totally safe and not in Klaus' evil grasps. Name's Todd, by the way."

"Todd?" Caroline wrinkles her nose. "Really? The spawn of Elena Gilbert decides to let her daughter marry someone who'll eventually name their granddaughter _Todd_?"

Damon narrows his eyes. "How did you know Elena had a daughter?"

"I—" Caroline clears her throat, running a hand down her sequined detailing at her waist. "You know, just a hunch. But why didn't you tell us earlier?"

"Kind of got overshadowed by the fact that Klaus totally wants to take you out on a date," Damon pouts. "Remember?"

"Which brings us back to the situation at hand." Stefan rests his hands on Caroline's windowsill. To Damon, he says: "We'll deal with you later."

("Ominous," Damon says with a round of jazz hands.)

"Guess I have to, don't I?" Caroline says stiffly, reluctantly admiring the soft ivory of the flower detailing at her neck and the flow of the dress. She turns to Damon, biting her lip. "How does she...?"

"Like Elena," Damon says shortly, casting her pillow aside. "More spunk, though—she had pink and blue streaks in her hair."

Stefan smiles softly. "Doesn't surprise me in the slightest." He surveys the two of them, his mouth set in a straight line. "So here's the deal—Klaus knows about Todd. For how long, we don't know, but he's definitely using it as leverage."

"To get to Caroline," Damon adds, walking to Caroline's vanity and picking up a lipstick tube. "Go for the red."

"I'm pretty sure he's not making any more hybrids," Stefan concedes, rubbing his chin. "And I think I know why he's in Paris right now—you know, even if Caroline hadn't fit into the equation."

"Why else would he be here?" Caroline asks with an impatient sniff, wriggling her mascara wand through her eyelashes.

He doesn't answer immediately, just gazes out her window at the glittering city against the dark of the night sky. "Rebekah's always loved Paris." Stefan sits back, his thumbs circling each other.

Caroline rolls her eyes. "So?"

"I'm surprised you don't remember," Stefan says, chuckling. "It's her birthday."

Damon blinks owlishly. "No shit."

* * *

Curled hair, red lips, dark lashes, rosy cheeks—Caroline's raring to go. She picks up her beaded clutch and gives herself a final onceover in her full-length mirror before stepping out of her room, a little hesitantly. She hasn't gone the whole nine miles to get dressed up in a long time. Usually her dates always start at the park and at the Champ de Mars and end in his bed, no lipstick and definitely no fussing with her hair necessary. Tonight, though...

She remembers a time where she'd twist her hands nervously in her lap waiting for Klaus to pick her up, to try her hardest not to look impressed at whatever night he's cooked up, to be so hell-bent on not laughing at his jokes (the rare times he actually made them), to pick at whatever meal he'd decided to cook for her at the last when she decided to be a brat and shoot down every restaurant he brings her to.

Damon's low whistle brings her back to reality, and she feels her cheeks warm up.

"Not too shabby," he commends, raising his glass. Stefan's in the stool at their island counter, nursing a beer, and even _he_ sends her a grin.

Really, it's like they're forgetting that they're making her walk the plank in a designer dress into the treacherous hybrid-infested waters below or something.

"Speaking of shabby." Caroline eyes the both of them in disdain. "Why aren't you two dressed yet?"

"I wasn't aware a night of take out and The Notebook had a dress code," Damon says, but his smartass comment dies halfway at the glint in Caroline's eyes. "Oh no—stop right there, Blondie."

Right on cue, her cell phone rings. She roots through her clutch and rolls her eyes at the private number flashing across the screen as she picks it up with an exasperated grunt. "Seriously?"

" _Where are you_?" comes the tinny sound of Rebekah's screech. "You were supposed to be here _ten_ minutes ago. You know my brother doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I realize that," Caroline replied sweetly, "but it seems Stefan's having a little trouble finding his tie." As she's saying it, she clomps over to where Stefan is and drags him by his collar to his room, practically kicking him inside.

" _Suit_ ," she mouths, channeling Bonnie Bennett in her glare. She turns to Damon, who's fidgeting, the beginnings of worry dawning on his face.

"No way, Blondie," he hisses furiously as Caroline waves several paisley ties in his face. "I am _not_ —"

"Tie?" Rebekah asks. "Stefan? Caroline, what are you talki—"

"Klaus isn't the only one who can call the shots," Caroline snaps, throwing a lamp at Damon's back as he tries to escape the apartment. It crashes against their TV, and the older vampire winces. "I want Stefan and Damon with me, or I don't show up at all."

Rebekah had let out an angry gust of wind, from the sound of it. "Fine, just be at Ledoyen in ten minu—"

"Also," Caroline raises her voice, but the phone flies out of her hand as she scrambles to catch the Jar before it crashes against the wall. She whips her head around and settles it safely back to the floor. "The Jar is off limits!" she screeches, vampiring her way to where Damon is to scratch his eyes out.

Stefan strolls out of his bedroom, fully dressed, casting the duelling duo a weary glance as he picks up the discarded phone. "Sorry, Rebekah," he says, hitting loudspeaker. "Caroline and Damon are... preoccupied at the moment."

(Meaning: Caroline's slamming a bag of frozen peas into his face while he tries to throw every single tie he owns out the window.)

There's a pregnant pause on the other line. "Rebekah?" Stefan prompts.

"Stefan?" Rebekah finally breathes. "I didn't know you were com—I'm not sure if Klaus..."

Stefan watches with thinly veiled amusement as Caroline drags Stefan across the room and into the shoves his face into the sink for an aggressive washing down (as he'd smeared Nutella all over his face as a desperate, last resort). "I'm sure Klaus will find it in himself to make an exception."

"Fine." Rebekah clears her throat. "As I was saying, be here in ten minutes."

"I'm in the mood for Italian," Caroline calls out childishly from across the room, tugging off Damon's rumpled shirt and trying to force him into a fresh mauve one.

Rebekah sounds disappointed. "But I've already reserved a table, and it's been so long since I've had Jambon Blan—"

"Pity," Caroline says shortly, tugging one of Stefan's ties around Damon's neck. Damon's choking. Stefan's sighing.

"Very well," Rebekah snaps. "I'll let _you_ deal with the reservations then. If we don't see your worthless heads within the hour, I won't be responsible for whatever massacre that's bound to headline the papers tomorrow."

The line goes dead.

Damon slumps down, his face in his hands. "Caroline, Caroline, Caroline," he moans. "What torture have you set me up against?"

Truth be told, she has no idea.

.

.

.

_circa 2012_

It's 9:21pm and she's been in the woods for _hours_ , and all she can see is pitch blackness around her. Caroline hugs her jacket closer, wishing her skin would bite at the cold, hoping for the wind to graze her cheeks— _anything_ , really. The shadowy trees around her are enveloping her in this strange stillness that seems almost tangible: pressing down on her chest and rooting her feet to the pine-covered ground.

She walks on for a while, letting her fingers linger on the rough bark of the trees, careful not to make a sound as her feet picks through the dried leaves and twisted roots. " _Tyler..."_ she almost calls out, but remembers Alaric's specific instructions not to.

"Don't draw any attention to yourself. But if you do happen to run into him," Alaric had warned, looking haggard, "don't give him any reason to feel threatened. And _don't_ let him run off."

Damon hands Alaric a glass tumbler filled with dark amber liquid—Scotch, Caroline guesses. "You look like you need it," is all he says.

Caroline can see that Damon's trying hard not to glance at the staircase every so often (but does, anyway). Matt's still sleeping upstairs, has been sleeping for the past three days.

Elena hasn't left his side since.

"Why would he?" Caroline asks, feeling her nails dig into her skin. "It was—it was an accident, you know how he gets..."

Damon has her up against the wall in the blink of an eye. "I'm not sure how long you're going to keep up this little charade, Blondie," he snarls. "He _bit_ Matt, almost threw Jeremy across the field at football practice last week." He shakes her shoulders, eyes widening in the way only Damon's can. "And I come home to find everything Stefan gone, his room completely trashed, smelling like wet _dog_. So go ahead. Live in your little _Tyler's Completely Flaw-free and Innocent_ bubble. Just know that Matt's blood?" He steps back and lets her slump down against the wall. "Completely on your hands."

Alaric puts his hand on Damon's shoulder. "Come on, Damon." But even that's weak at best.

The glare-off between Damon and Caroline intensifies, the air around them heavy with with their hateful gazes, and Caroline thinks it's never going to end until Jeremy pokes his head inside the room.

"So Klaus and Rebekah are off looking for Stefa…" Jeremy trails off, glancing at Damon, to Caroline, to Alaric standing kind of helplessly behind them, then back to Damon again. _Must be Thursday_ , the roll of his eyes seems to say. "Bonnie's traced the woods—she says she can sense a couple of supernatural beings in there."

Alaric grabs his bag—filled with scary looking hunting equipment—and heads for the door. "Let's get going."

Jeremy's hand is wrapped loosely around a wooden stake, which Caroline can't help but stare at. "I want to help."

Damon just nods. "Got your ring?"

Jeremy lifts his hand, and the ring glints under the kitchen light. "Don't I always?"

.

.

Something— _a twig_? _A branch_? _An undead being_?—snaps behind her, and she whips her head around, fists ready, fangs bared—

"Woah!" Jeremy gasps, holding up his hands. He lets out a shaky laugh. His flashlight lay abandoned at his feet. "Easy, Care. It's only me."

Caroline swallows back the scream that had crept its way up her throat. "Y-yeah. Sorry, you startled me."

"Even with your super vampire senses?" he chides, and Caroline giggles weakly at that. Jeremy clears his throat. "Anyway—I thought I heard something down that tree yonder." He gestures at the dark space between the trees with his flashlight.

Caroline's lips tilt into a teasing smile. "Down that tree yonder? Really, Jeremy?"

"Whatever," Jeremy says, rubbing the back of his head. "I've been hanging around Finn too much—learning the tools of trade."

"Who knew werewolf hunting would come in handy to you, huh?" Caroline mutters bitterly under her breath.

Jeremy steps in her way firmly, his flashlight glaring under his chin. Caroline thinks he looks medieval and creepy and almost looks away, but Jeremy's got his gaze locked onto hers. "Tyler's one of my best friends, and him harpooning me across the football field? I let that go." He steps closer, and says (almost gently), "But even Elena drew the line at biting Matt. And now Stefan's gone. Stefan's older than Tyler. Stronger than Tyler. What does that mean?"

Caroline darts her eyes away and bites down on her lower lip and argues, "Tyler's not the only hybrid in town."

"The other hybrids in town know not to mess with the Salvatores, remember?" Jeremy reaches for Caroline's hand and guides her through the trees, ducking under branches that Caroline's surprised he can see in the dark. "They always come collecting."

"I just don't know what's wrong with him," Caroline says softly, eyes following the beam of the flashlight. "He hasn't been the same since—"

" _Shh_ ," Jeremy whispers urgently, hand wrapped around her mouth. They here dried leaves crackling around them and Caroline shoots a hand out to shut off the flashlight. In the faint moonlight, she sees Jeremy raise a finger to his lips and point to the undergrowth three feet away. She nods, and they quickly prowl to their one chance of concealment.

Jeremy's just ducking behind the bushes when Stefan's suddenly crashing through the thicket, panting though he needs no air, blood ripping through his clothes and even more blood smeared across his face, dark against the alabaster of his skin.

Caroline doesn't blink, doesn't think.

"Stefan!" she's out of the undergrowth in a flash, gripping Stefan's shoulder as he sways on his feet. Jeremy's behind her, tugging her urgently, Come on, Care—like Alaric said: find Stefan, get the hell out of the woods, come on, gotta text Damon—

"He's here," Stefan chokes out, gripping the neck of Caroline's jacket. "Tyler's just behind—run."

Caroline barely has time to let out a strangled cry of, "What?" when there's a great creaking sound and a tree crashes to the ground not five feet away from them, and suddenly Tyler's everywhere: crouched on the upended tree—flinging Jeremy into the bushes—twisting Stefan's neck with a sickening crunch—knocking Caroline to the ground so hard she sees stars when she blinks.

" _Tyler_ ," she cries, struggling to get up, but he's on her, pinning her shoulders to the ground with his hands. His breathing harsh and quick, his eyes dark and beady and feral, his lips twisted in a way she's only seen in those movies her father never lets her watch—

"Caroline," Tyler snarls, his face contorting painfully as his fangs disappear, only to pop out again. "You gotta—you gotta get out— _go_."

"Get off of her!"

"Jer—!"

By sheer force of willpower, Jeremy's tackled Tyler off of Caroline, teeth bared and chest heaving. Caroline shuffles away frantically _—God, no more, Tyler, please—_ swats something hot and uncomfortable off her face, before she realizes it's her own tears— _please, no more, I don't want to see this, no, it's not real, no, no, no—_

"Care, run!" Jeremy yells as he struggles with Tyler, and Caroline almost laughs—hysterical or not, she's not sure—because _she's_ the vampire, _she's_ the stronger one here, _she's_ supposed to be telling _Jeremy_ to run. She blinks the last of the stars away and stumbles to her feet, feels that swooping sensation in her stomach when she sees Tyler twist Jeremy's hand behind his back—Jeremy lets out a cry—

 _God, no more, Tyler, please. "_ Tyler," she rasps, tearing her nails at the back of his shirt. " _Stop it_ —no more, come on, this isn't you—"

Jeremy makes the mistake of kicking Tyler in the chest and the hybrid stills, the ticking sound of the woods and the shuffling of their feet halting along with him. Slowly – dazedly, even – Tyler lets go of Jeremy (who backs away and winces when his arm hits the tree behind him) and raises his hand to his chest, where it hovers for a few seconds.

"That hurt," he says slowly, like it's a revelation.

"Tyler?" Caroline whispers.

"Tyler," Jeremy warns. "Dude, back off." His right arm, the one that isn't broken, reaches for the stake in his back pocket. Grips it. Grips it tight. "Don't make me do this to you."

Tyler doesn't seem to hear him. He takes a step closer, his eyes glinting in the darkness. "That hurt," he says again.

"Tyler," Caroline says again. This time it's not a whisper—it's a plead. "Please, no—I don't want to see—come on, we can fix thi—we can fix you—"

Tyler takes another step forward.

" _Please, no more, it's not you—"_ Caroline's voice is a shrill one as her eyes widen and her hands wrench uselessly at his arms. "Tyler, I love you. Do you hear me? I love y—please, come on, let's go, _I love you—"_

Jeremy looks like he wants to back away, but there's nowhere to go—his back is flat against the tree and Tyler's staring him in the eye. Tyler raises his hand and the woods come alive again as Jeremy frantically whips his head to lock gazes with Caroline, and says loudly, urgently: "Caroline, tell Elena I—"

Tyler plunges his hand deep into Jeremy's chest.

A scream, loud and shrill and bloody tears her throat apart, a scream so deafening and bouncing off the sounds of the forest, isn't enough to drown out the sound Tyler makes when he wrenches his grip from Jeremy's chest, his fist horrible and dripping and oozing red.

Jeremy drops to his knees, that panicked, wide-eyed look still on his face, and Caroline realizes with dawning horror that his ring is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"She's not coming," Rebekah mutters through stiff lips. She takes a deep gulp of her white wine, ignoring the frown her brother's sending her. "I told you so."

"She'll be here," he snaps, resting an impatient hand on the table, watching the tick of the Rolex glinting on his hand. He almost reaches up to loosen his tie—but keeps his hand on the table under Rebekah's watchful gaze. "Stefan will make sure of it."

"It's my birthday." She bemoans the miserable time she's having, whingeing about how she had wanted to go _dancing_ , but no, _you_ insisted... Pressing her pink lips together, she adds sullenly: "I wanted Jambon Blanc."

"And you'll get it," he hisses through his teeth, turning his head to glare at her. "Just—just wait ten more minutes."

"No need," says a voice from his left, dull and flat. "I'm here."

He turns slowly, his eyes going straight to her face. He lets a slow smile spread on his lips as he takes her in—the curl of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the pout to her lips. "Caroline."

"Klaus," is all she says.

.

.

**tbc**

.

.


	4. i'm at home with a ghost (who got left in the cold)

"Well." Stefan leans back against the brick wall, one hand in his pocket and the other dangling over the railing. The night blinks bright lights up at them and from this view, this penthouse view, Stefan sees Paris in a way he never has before. "That went well."

"Shut up, Stefan," Klaus says simply, too tired to threaten and definitely too tired to growl. He takes a sip of his Bourbon instead. "That's new. The cigarettes."

Stefan tilts his head back and blows a curled wisp of smoke into the night air. "Smoke rings," he explains placidly. "Passes the time."

Klaus grants him a smile, but only a brief one. "Hope you're not passing it on to anybody?"

"Caroline's doing fine on her own," Stefan chuckles, but it dies down in his throat soon after. He joins Klaus, slouched at the railings, and flicks his cigarette over the edge. Their eyes follow the butt glowing orange in its descent, before disappearing altogether into the dark.

"Surprised you haven't told her yet," Stefan says (sheepishly, begrudgingly) after a beat or two.

"I'm surprised _you_ haven't, either," Klaus replies.

Stefan pushes away from the railing and walks to the center of the balcony, hands alternating between being borrowed in his pocket or dangling uselessly at his sides. The chaise lounge chair, he realizes, is like the one at home. How similar Rebekah and Caroline's tastes are. He turns back to Klaus. "You owed me."

"And now you owe me. Is that all there is to it?" Klaus finishes off the last of his drink. "I owe you something, you owe me something. How many more times do we need to owe each other for you to admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"You asked for a favour and I said yes." Klaus is still looking out into the distance. "Because that's what mates do."

Mates. Friends. Brothers. Next Klaus will be saying he's going to move in with them. Stefan won't quite know how to respond to that.

.

.

_circa 2012._

There's something about 4:39am that reminds Caroline of daddy—not _dad_ , the one with the Stepford smiles and the one-happy-family-at-home pretenses and the starch plaid shirts, but _daddy_ , the one who stays at home and makes her ice-cream breakfasts in bed, the one who wears sauce-stained t-shirts with holes in the neck, the one who'd read story after story after story to her when she can't sleep at night. He'd tell her of how Sleeping Beauty helped her Prince Charming slay the dragon, how Belle was the one who'd pushed Gaston off of the Beast; how Little Red Riding Hood was best friends with the wolf. He'd rock her in his lap and whisper some obscure poem in her ear, over and over again like a crackly broken record in the backdrop of her yellow room.

As she grew older, and as Liz never came back until after 10pm on a good day and as dad never came back at all, the stories became fewer and sparser in between, and with changes to them. Starting with how Sleeping Beauty wasn't at all interested in knowing her birthright, and then how Belle ran home after being released by the beast and never set foot in the forest again, and Little Red disappeared altogether.

The day he left, he took all her fairytales with him and told her to stay safe, be good, keep a level head on your shoulders; listen to Liz. Shortly after that, vampires came to town. Suddenly everything made sense, but that still didn't stop her from wanting to throw herself on her bed and weep when she'd seen how empty her bookshelf looked.

Two years later, with her bookshelf laden with picture frames and cheer trophies and miscellaneous little knick knacks instead, Caroline opens her eyes at 4:39am on a Saturday morning at almost the exact same moment Klaus does.

It's still dark out (a mix of dusty dark blues and swirly greys), and she can smell rain. Not the light rain that comes with unexpected surprises, but the heavy, pounding rain that only makes you want to curl up on the windowsill and reflect the day away. _Listener, be not frightened_ , sings from a dusty corner of her mind as she trails her eyes back to Klaus—so young, with an almost child-like quality to the quirk of his brows in the obscenely early hour. They don't do anything, just stare at each other with the heavy-lidded eyes of morning—hers expectant, his wary.

She can almost hear the rumble of a voice close to her ear, a whisper of, _I and the werewolf, side by side_. She reaches a hand out to touch him, and she's not surprised when his eyes widen just the slightest bit as her finger traces his jaw line. "You're still here."

"That's because you haven't kicked me out yet," he replies, voice just as soft. There's something about 4:39am that makes one whisper their words into the pillows, hunch their shoulders into the warm covers, their feet tangling in the blankets but never in each others.

Caroline moves closer, and this time Klaus' arms are ready. On the small of her back they feel steady and strong, and she tries not to think of another pair of arms as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. He smells like ash and nutmeg and crushed mint leaves, and somehow it works. She breathes in again, thinking of red leaves and new parchment and apple cider, and decides that he smells like autumn. "Won't Rebekah be wondering where you are?"

Klaus chuckles against her hair. "I think she's preoccupied with that busboy of hers at the moment."

Caroline refrains from rolling her eyes. Rebekah had spent the last week droning on and on (and _on_ ) about how petty he was, all strong cheek bones and Michelangelo arms but absolutely empty of substance; how he never called back, how he always forgot dates—and yet she drops everything with no reservations when Matt swings by with a daisy (Rebekah thinks roses are overrated and they make her sneeze) and pistachio macaroons, topped with a half-assed garble of apologies.

"Of course, she doesn't seem to realize that that _boy_ is only interested in the doppelganger," Klaus continues, and Caroline stiffens at the venom in his voice. He sighs; rubbing soothing circles into her back, and says: "Did you really think I don't notice these things?" She pulls back to look at him, into his impassive eyes as he continues, "Because I do."

Caroline bites her lower lip—she knows where this is headed.

He brushes his lip against her soft lashes. "Morning's coming soon." _Tyler's coming back soon_.

"It always does." _I always knew he would._

Klaus lets out another long, slow breath. Counts the light dusting of freckles on her nose, the one no one's allowed to see because she covers them with foundation the minute the sun peeks out over the horizon. "What are you going to do today?" _What happens now?_

Caroline puts her hand on his cheek, brushes across the stubble on his jaw. She can see him trying not to give in to it, but his eyes close anyway. She takes a deep breath and puts her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close.

Her lips move against his the way only certain first kisses do—softly, sweetly, and he tastes the way he smells. She's about to pull away but his hands keep her in place, deepens until she can feel his tongue skirting (almost shyly) against her own, until she starts leaning into it as well, until her hand starts roaming the expanse of his chest, until she's completely forgotten about the way he smells because the way he's kissing her now—it's a whole new experience altogether.

Klaus peppers her jaw with butterfly kisses as she pulls away, and it burns away; a keepsake in the back of her mind. She grazes a finger across his lips, red from kissing, and when she looks up at him one last time there's a hint of resignation in his eyes. It feels like a goodbye.

* * *

_listener, be not frightened,_  
i and the wolf together,  
side by side, through the long, long night,  
hid from the awful weather  
—j. b. taylor

* * *

"Well, this is awkward," Damon announces, spearing his ravioli with his fork and chewing it with gusto. Three sets of eyes—Rebekah's, Stefan's and Caroline's—turn sharply to him, but all he does is set his napkin down, prim and proper, and asks Klaus to _pass the salt, yo_.

Stefan stabs at his food, his fork scraping across the porcelain plate mimicking his chagrin. And as if Damon isn't bad enough with his impromptu, _completely without being pre-discussed_ birthday present—

("Rebekah!" Damon exclaims upon seeing her, and pulls her in for an exaggerated air-kiss (or three). "Heard it was your birthday. Totally got you something." And he whips a package from behind his back, winking all the way.

Klaus sits back (mildly amused) and Caroline rolls her eyes (not amused at all), and Rebekah cautiously peels back the tape to the crudely-wrapped present to unearth (to Stefan's horror) a hot pink t-shirt proclaiming DANGER: TOXIC SEXINESS across the boob area and in the back, with font just as loud and garish, MAY RESULT IN: DEATH.

He then proceeded to prod and jostle and push Rebekah into throwing it over the burgundy Oscar de la Renta dress she had on, and she's too bewildered to protest when Damon gets exasperated and pulls it on for her.

Really, Stefan would have thrown Damon off the sky-high, revolving restaurant had Caroline not stabbed his thigh under the table with her butter knife.)

—Caroline's refusing to look at Klaus at all, instead snatching up the salt from Damon when Klaus complimented her appearance, humming the theme song to _Friends_ under her breath when Rebekah muttered about the shortcomings of Italian restaurants, and slurping up her spaghetti like a child in retaliation to Stefan nudging her shin (none too gently) under the table.

Every so often Klaus would find excuses to touch Caroline—a subtle graze of fingers as he passes whatever condiment she's demanded from Damon; helping her adjust the napkin on her thigh. She ignores him steadfastly, and her wineglass remains empty because the bottle is next to Klaus' plate, and she's too stubborn to talk to him directly.

After a while, Stefan gives up.

Stefan's mouth is saying "Caroline, would you like some more wine?" but his eyes are screaming _At the very least_ look _at him, Caroline_.

Caroline's mouth is saying "Yes, please—what a saint you are to offer, Stefan", but her eyes are screaming _Bite me._

Damon just frowns, waving his fork at them. "Why are you talking weird?", and Rebekah sighs, "Why are we having dinner with these imbeciles if we're to be ignored?" (and just about three hundred variations of that, including but not limited to) "You've got sauce on your chin, Damon—oh no, it's just your chin", "This is the worst birthday ever", and " _I wanted_ _Jambon Blanc_." and Klaus (with his face set like stone) snaps, "Rebekah—a word."

He and Rebekah push back from the table (Rebekah jerks the bottle of wine away from Caroline and brings it along with her; Caroline snarls) and make their way through the flickering candle light and the many tables to the outdoor terrace.

Damon's immediately hounding on Caroline. "Barbie, what's your problem?"

Stefan brushes aside Rebekah's balled-up birthday present and leans forward, his voice low and urgent. "Would it kill you to talk to him?"

"Yes, it would," Caroline replies promptly, shoving another forkful of pasta in her mouth.

"Quit it, Caroline," Damon snarls. "Do you know how much I—how much _we_ have to lose if you ruin tonight?"

Caroline slams her fork down, ignoring the scandalized looks the patrons are shooting her. "Do you know how much my skin _crawls_ sitting next to him?" She turns to Stefan. "Do you know how it feels to have him look at me and want to just _hurl myself_ off this fricken restaurant?"

Stefan looks like he wants to say something, but Caroline's already pushed her chair back, her napkin dropping to the floor. "Do you know how painful it is that no matter how hard I try, I'll always see—" Her breath catches in her throat but she ploughs on, "I always see Tyler when I look at him?" She shakes her head, jerking her hand away from Damon's when he reaches for her. "Every time. It was that way a hundred years ago, and it's still—and it's still the same now."

Stefan lets out a sharp breath and scrapes his chair closer. "Caroline—Caroline, look at me. I need you to breathe for a second." He puts a surprisingly warm hand on her chin, props it up so she'll look at him. "Caroline, breathe. Breathe."

Damon leans forward as well, all pretenses lost. "Listen to him, Caroline." There's a look in his eyes that she hasn't seen in a long time, and she flicks her eyes back to Stefan's and sees the same look there as well. "We need you to calm down. Think you can do that?"

Caroline sucks in a shaky breath, nodding her head once. Stefan leans closer and speaks so quietly she has to strain her ears to listen. "I didn't want to tell you this but I guess I have no choice now. You need to be strong for us right now, not just for your sake but for Todd's. Klaus…" Stefan shakes his head and continues, "Klaus is going to kill Todd if tonight doesn't go as planned."

Caroline can feel her throat doing funny things again, but Damon rests a heavy hand on her arm and says again: "Breathe."

"Caroline—Caroline, look at me. Shh," Stefan says soothingly, rubbing circles on the back of her hand. "No matter how hard this is, no matter how much you feel like running, you fight it. You bury it." Stefan's hand presses onto hers. "When you feel like you can't go through with this, you look at me. I'm right here."

Caroline swallows and looks back to Damon, who nods curtly. "You can do this. Breathe."

"Breathe," Caroline repeats shakily. She inhales and lets it out slowly, but all resolve goes with that breath. "Why is he doing this?"

Something twitches in Stefan's jaw and he doesn't answer immediately—he seems to be mulling it over. "I don't know. I wish I did. But whatever it is…" He presses down on her hand again, warm and reassuring, and his eyes bear into hers. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you."

And just like in another room, in another time that seems so long ago, she believes him.

.

.

_circa 2012._

"Let me in, A- _lah_ -ric," Caroline draws his name out in frustration, her hand sore from banging on the door for almost an hour now. "I know you're in there—I heard you put down your stupid coffee mug. I can _also_ hear Damon telling you to quietly set down your stupid coffee mug."

She bangs on the door again. "Let me see him!"

She's about to kick the door down—courtesy can kiss her ass—when the door swings open just the slightest bit, revealing a sliver of Damon's face. "Fancy seeing you here, Blondie."

Caroline heaves into the door as much as hard as she can, but Damon's got about 146 years on her. She curls back her upper lip, hoping her fang is threatening enough.

All it does is make Damon chuckle. "I don't think so, Caroline. Tyler here's on a little time out." His eyes darken considerably as he leans closer and says, "No exceptions."

"Just—Damon." Caroline heaves a sigh and leans into the door, her nose almost brushing against his. "I need to know he's alright."

"As far as psycho heart-ripping hybrids go, I guess he's pretty alright." Damon moves to close the door, but Caroline's obstinate face is still in the way. He sighs, and his voice drops a notch. "I know you're the patron saint of forgiveness and light, but even you've got to admit he has wholeheartedly—if you'll excuse the pun—fucked up tonight. What more will it take for you to see that, Blondie?"

"You didn't see—before he broke…" Caroline winces and tries again, "Before he… _hurt_ Stefan, he told me to get away. He didn't hurt me, Tyler. He could control whatever it is that's taken over his head when I'm around—it's just… it's just a momentary thing."

"True love conquers all, huh?" Damon says sardonically. "Caroline. In addition to snapping Stefan's neck like it was no big deal, he _drank_ his blood. Tried to drain him dry. Stefan's still out cold. Tyler _ripped_ Jeremy's heart out. He tried to do the same to Alaric when we were trying to placate him. Elena is at home _crying_. And you're here asking for permission to comfort the person who _killed_ her brother, instead of comforting _her_." Damon shakes his head slowly, still not budging from the door. "What's gotten into you?"

Caroline lunges forward, desperation showing in the way she claws at Damon's shirt. "If you'll just let me _talk_ to h—"

"Buh-bye, Blondie."

Damon slams the door in her face.

* * *

It's a hundred years later and she still shivers in the cold. If muscle memory serves her right, the hair on her arms would be standing on end right now and her fingers would probably be swollen and stiff—it is February after all, and she's out on the terrace without her coat. Caroline breathes a sigh and drums her fingers lightly on the railing, and tries to imagine how the night would bite at her cheeks, make her want to fold in on herself.

She shivers again, and closes her eyes.

"I missed that about you."

The drumming of her fingers stop, but her eyes remain closed. It's not cold anymore—far from it, in fact. She can feel his eyes—the kind of blue you can only find sparkling in those trickling streams in the forest—burning across her cheeks, and she tries to stop herself from swallowing as she turns around slowly.

Opens her eyes.

Klaus is standing closer than she'd expected and she almost takes a step back, almost jerks herself away, but she remembers Stefan and thinks of Damon and takes a deep breath and lets it out, in and out and in and out. Caroline raises her eyes to his, and she wants to say something, anything to show that she's totally unaffected by his being here, but her lips end up parting with no words to come out of them.

"Enjoying the cold, Caroline?" Klaus asks, taking a step back as though sensing her discomfort. "You always did have remarkable memory."

And then it happens. Her first words to him after a hundred years: " _Seriously_?" She shakes her head, scoffs even, and turns away from him back to the glittering Paris skyline. "Vampires. We never forget." _Never_ , she would have liked to continue savagely, but before she can Klaus is already next to her, and her eyes are already closing—already bracing herself for whatever it is Klaus is about to unleash upon her... but nothing comes.

Caroline opens her eyes just a smidge and what she sees makes her start. Klaus is holding out the bottle of Pétrus she'd been eyeing all dinner long, and he looks mildly offended for the shortest of moments before stepping back behind wall he's built around himself all those years ago. Not that she minds—she doesn't feel like talking much anyway.

She takes the bottle from him, but there are no glasses, so she swigs straight from the bottle instead, five-thousand-dollar wine be damned.

"Thanks," she says, although rather begrudgingly. She may hate the guy, but she hasn't forgotten her manners (she's a vampire, after all). He nods in response, hands in his pockets, just watching her down the alcohol like the seasoned drinker she likes to pretend she is. Watching her like he's waiting for an invitation.

She scoffs against the lip of the bottle. Like hell. He can stand there for as long as he wants, she's sure as hell not going to initiate any more conversation tonight. She's said one word too many already. But then she remembers late afternoons and a slip of his touch and how his eyes would trail lazily down her arms as she's swathed in the sunshine, hazy and golden. How he used to wait for her, how he'll probably always wait for her—how he'll never stop.

She remembers how she felt during those first few years of escaping Mystic Falls, how no place was perfect, how no place was secluded enough, how no place as inconspicuous as she'd like it to be. Always having to double check the locks on the door. Always having to look over her shoulder as she goes grocery shopping (The List hadn't been concocted yet). Always jumping at the slightest sound Damon makes when he ransacks the kitchen for a snack in the middle of the night.

She'd wake up in the morning, with dark circles under her eyes and hair tousled beyond her control. She'd locked the doors behind her, went shopping, and when she'd come home she'd slammed a glass jar the size of a baby elephant down in the middle of their apartment, and much to Stefan's amusement (and Damon's chagrin), had announced: "If we're going to make this work, there's going to have to be a few changes around here."

"That," Damon says, sipping daintily from a blood bag, "is one bigass jar."

"Rule number one: No insulting the Jar. For that, you drop a dollar in it," she'd said firmly. "Go on."

Damon blinks owlishly up at her, spluttering, "But I didn't even _say_ anyth—you're insane."

"Rule number two," she talks over him, prowling around the Jar like a panther would its prey, "No insulting or contradicting Caroline while she's talking about the Jar. You just lost yourself a fiver, Damon."

Damon exchanges a _look_ with Stefan, but Caroline pounces on it. "Jeers, leers, shared looks, cutting remarks _and-slash-or_ passive aggressive comments fall under the category of contradiction. Another five dollars." Her glare doesn't give way until Damon practically throws his whole wallet inside the Jar.

"You were a lot more fun when you were wallowing around like an abused hippo," Damon groused.

"People change," she says airily over her shoulders, but not before singing, "Another dollar, Damon Salvatore."

Damon had looked at his brother for backup, but all Stefan had done was shrug, that half smile lighting up his face. "Hey, people change—so drop yours in there."

She remembers sitting back at breakfast, mug of coffee in hand, watching Stefan and Damon argue over who has to drop a fifty because they'd forgotten to lock the door. They compromised by assuring her one of them—Stefan—will never leave her alone in the house after 5pm, how one of them—Damon—will never let her drink alone. Ten, thirty, fifty years down the line, with no Klaus in sight, she'd finally begun sleeping with the window open, started freaking out less when Stefan was the slightest bit late stepping inside the door; started going out, getting a job even.

Started to live again. She remembers the look in Stefan's eyes one morning when she'd woken up and announced she's ready to move on. "Somewhere with lots of people," she'd gushed. "How about Tokyo?"

Caroline's a vampire, and she doesn't want to forget how it feels to live.

Maybe that's why she holds the bottle out to Klaus, and maybe that's why he takes it.

.

.

_circa 2013._

Elena has yellow flowers in her hair. Pale yellow; the kind of yellow that you can only find shining in puddles after some terrestrial rainstorm. The kind of yellow that seems to bring out the glow in Elena's dress, the smile in her cheeks, the sparkle of unshed tears in her eyes. It's Elena's wedding day and instead of a veil she has goddamn _flowers_ in her hair, which was what Caroline would have opted for instead if it had been _her_ wedding.

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at this, but chooses the former because her makeup had taken nearly two hours and she'd be damned if she's going to spend another two fixing up her mascara.

"Look at the beautiful, blushing bride," Caroline sings softly from her place on the ottoman, and Elena does indeed blush, meeting her eyes through the reflection of her vanity. Bonnie smiles down at Elena and touches one of the gardenias in her hair, runs a hand through the glossy locks that curl tastefully around her neck.

"Today's the day," Elena practically gushes; her face aglow with so much light Caroline has to look away. She feels her smile faltering and a sharp prickling in the corner of her eyes and— _oh hell_ she really is going to cry. She masks it with a little sneeze and hastily stands up to slap Elena's hand away from her hair.

"Don't," Caroline says, raising a reprimanding eyebrow. "It looks perfect."

Elena looks at their reflection again, at the three of them together—Bonnie's hand on her shoulder, Caroline's hand on hers, Bonnie's arm on Caroline's back—and smiles. "This was how I'd always imagined it."

Caroline laughs then, and she doesn't want to bring anything weird up but the elephant in the room practically _begged_ it to. "Believe it or not, I always imagined a Salvatore on your arm."

"Caroline—" Bonnie starts to say, but Caroline just pushes away from them, pacing back and forth on the white faux fur rug.

"And—and don't you think it's a little early; a little too _soon_?" Caroline presses, and the crestfallen look on Elena's face is like a twist of a knife in her still heart. "You're _nineteen_ , Elena. You have all these opportunities to do all these things, like go to college or—or getting an actual ID whereas _I_..." Caroline slumps back down on the ottoman, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. "I'll have to use a fake ID. I'll always have to use a fake ID." She buries her face in her hands, cursing the day—cursing herself. "Look, 'Lena, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make it about me—it's _your_ big day and I'm messing everything up, and it's just..."

_It's just shit. Total and utter shit._

Caroline trails off as she feels Elena's arms around her; hears Bonnie's mumbling an excuse of _going to find Ric before he wrecks the open bar_ or something of the like. She uncurls her fists from her eyes and peeks at Elena, but the brunette's not angry, not in the least. In fact, she seems to have an oddly understanding look in her eyes, and in the way she gently brushes Caroline's hair from her eyes.

"How long have you been feeling like this?" Elena asks as Caroline closes her eyes, leans into her touch; lets out a sigh.

"A while," Caroline admits, biting down on her lower lip. "I guess it just really hit me this morning, you know? Elena Gilbert's really getting married."

"I really am," Elena says, and there's a silence. Curling a tendril of her hair in her fingers, Elena continues, "I love him, Caroline. He is right. _This_ is right. And as for the _right now_..." Elena's hand stills for a moment as she tries to figure out a way to word it without bringing _him_ up, an unspoken agreement of theirs. "I guess... ever since that day in the rain, it just hit me that if Matt died, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. He was here for me before all this craziness started; he was here for me when it left me with nothing. I've lost enough people that I love, Care."

 _Such is life_ , Caroline hears in the recess of her mind, but shoves it away. Instead, she looks at her, all cutting eyes and set lips. "Why'd you invite Klaus then?"

Elena looks away. "I owe him."

"We don't owe him _anyth_ —" Caroline starts to hiss, but Elena just says, "Matt's alive because of him. You have to respect that."

 _Matt's alive because I sold my soul to the devil for him_ , Caroline wants to say, but doesn't. Instead, she asks: "You're happy, right? Because that's all I ever want you to be."

Elena nods, and there is no doubt in her eyes at all when she says, "Yes. I'm happy."

Caroline lets out a breath of a laugh. "Mrs. Elena Donovan."

"Damn straight."

Right on cue, Bonnie's head peeks through the door; eyebrow quirked, _everything alright?_

Elena just nods, and as her best friends fuss over her bouquet and the appliqué on her wedding dress, she says again: "This was how I always imagined it. The three of us, together, on the best day of my life."

The clock strikes ten and Elena tightens her grip around her flowers.

.

.

He sees her floating down the hall like a dream, eyes dewy and shining golden. His heart twists at the smile on her face, the grip on her flowers, and he has the strangest urge to step up, sweep her off her feet, kiss sense into her and just run. Where to, he's not quite sure, but they'll figure it out along the way because in the epic he's written in his mind, Damon loves Elena and Elena loves Damon and everything's great and everything's swell, because _love_ , man. Love conquers all.

Damon knows he shouldn't be there right now, he should be sitting in the pews with Alaric on his left and Stefan on his right, counting down the seconds til the wedding march strikes up and the heads turn to see the face of the bride, the face of the soon-to-be Mrs Matt Donovan.

He watches Bonnie brush a teary-eyed kiss against Elena's cheek before pushing the door open, and then Caroline takes a deep breath, giggling under her breath as she whispers a _Goodbye, Miss Gilbert_ , counting the steps and waiting for the beat in the song until it's her turn to walk down the aisle.

And then Elena's alone in the hall, not moving, not breathing—not doing anything, really. Just looking ahead with those flowers in her hand, and he wishes her knuckles are whitened or her that her eyes would lose that goddamned _shine_ to them, but before he can say it out loud the music swells. Elena takes a step forward.

Damon doesn't think.

He has Elena in his arms before he even realizes it, trapping her against the wall at the far end of the hall, burying his face in the soft dip of her shoulder blades. She's gasping, her flowers are on the floor, and he's stepped on the hem of her dress.

"Damon, what the _he_ —"

"Don't," he says, his hand covering her lips. "Just—just stay here for a few more minutes. A few more seconds, even. I'm not ready yet." He looks into her eyes, hopes she can see the truth in them. "I'm not ready."

"Not ready for what?" Elena asks, but she's looking like she already knows the answer as she scoops her flowers back into her arms. They can hear the wedding march playing in an awkward loop again; can hear the chatter of dialogue like an incessant buzzing. Damon kicks himself mentally, cursing his unscrupulous ways.

 _Kidnapping the bride_? he can hear Stefan grousing in the back of his mind. _Really_ , _Damon_?

Well, it appears to be the case now, so _Yes, really_ brother. He looks back at Elena, tries to figure out how to word his next sentence, but then decides, in all honesty, "I'm not ready to let you go."

Elena backs away then, almost fearfully. "Damon..."

"No. Stop it, Elena." Damon reaches for her, pulls her close again. "Stop running."

"Who says I'm running?" she whispers against his suit jacket. "I lov—"

"Don't say that," Damon says harshly. He wants to shake her, wants to yell at her—but he also wants to kiss her. Looking down at her, he doesn't know where to start.

"Damon." Elena rests a hand on his shoulder and it's like a sigh as she says carefully, deliberately, "I love Matt, I need him, I—look at me, Damon. You need to hear this."

He shakes his head, tries to touch her hands, tried to touch her face. "It's too _soon_."

"Not everyone has all the time in the world like you do, Damon," Elena says softly. "I want to start on the rest of my life, as soon as possible. Not a second to waste."

"Technically," they hear the sharp voice of Bonnie behind them, "this has been a lot more than one second."

Damon turns to see Bonnie standing there, an accusatory look in her eyes, one hand angled on her hips. "Everything okay, 'Lena?"

Elena nods. "Yeah—it's fine. Is everyone alright in there?"

"They're awfully suspicious, but I think I can stall." Bonnie turns to leave, but not without shooting Damon a _look_. "But not for much longer."

Elena spares him a smile, small and apologetic. "I should go."

"I love you." It comes out like a curse, a Freudian slip, and he catches her elbow and wills her to stay, to hear him out, to—something. But all she's doing is standing there, not pulling away, but not coming to him either. Damon takes a deep breath. "I love you, Elena. And I wish you could say it back to me—not the way you do, but the way I want you to. I love you."

Elena presses her pink lips together, something glassy wavering in her eyes. She pries his fingers off her arm, gently. "I could say it, Damon. And I would mean it with all of my heart—but it's just not the way you want me to love you. I can't." She shakes her head, backing away. "I have to go. Everyone's waiting."

"Elena," he tries calling after her, but she never once looks back.

* * *

"You've been busy," Klaus comments, handing the bottle back to her after he's had his fill of the wine. When Caroline looks at him questioningly, he shrugs and says, "I visited the little gallery you work in. Nice Monets. Pity about the lack of Peploe, though. He always was overlooked. I like the work you've done so far."

Caroline curls further in on herself. "Always following me."

"Always running from me."

Her grip around the neck of the bottle tightens. "I haven't been _ru_ —"

Klaus steps forward abruptly and reaches a hand out to touch her face, and smirks when she immediately jerks away. "Care to retract your previous statement?"

"Why'd you even come back?" she snarls, cheeks red from drinking. "Everything's finally perfect—Stefan finally doesn't have to worry about me waking up screaming and Damon... Damon's finally learning to deal. And then _you_ just come along and ruin _everything_." The limited edition, thousand-dollar bottle of wine crashes against the wall by Klaus' head, but he doesn't even flinch. Doesn't even blink.

Caroline licks her suddenly dry lips, aware of how her hair's falling out of its immaculate twist. "If you've back to apologize, you're sorely disappointed—" her hands find its way to his hands, shoving with all her might, "you cruel—you vile—"

He grabs her wrist and holds them in place, his eyes lighting up like a thunderstorm. "I came back," he says through gritted teeth, "because you still owe me."

"Why am I not surprised?" she bites out against his chest. "Let go of me."

"Why? Because you hate me? I don't think you do. Hating me would make everything easier. A convenient excuse—wouldn't it?" Klaus tightens his hold on her. "Hear me out, Caroline. You owe me that much."

"I don't owe you anyth—"

"Yes you do," he hisses. "You haven't been running— _yes_ , running—from me all these years because you haven't forgiven me. No, Caroline—you're running because you _have_." He stops, looks straight into her eyes, lets it sink in. "And you're ashamed of it. Ashamed of what Tyler might think. _Wake up, Caroline._ He's gone and not coming back—he can't live through you. I won't let him."

"You don't get to have a say in how I choose to live." Caroline shoves against him and wrenches out of his grip. Her hands are beginning to shake again and she thinks of Damon, thinks of Stefan, thinks of taking deep and steady breaths, anything to stop them. "You make me _sick_ , standing there with your self-righteous speeches on moving on, like you haven't been plaguing my life all these years."

"Caroline—" He reaches for her again, but she all but hurls him against the wall, ruining his suit as it mingles with the wine dripping down the bricks.

" _Don't touch me_ ," she spits, her nails digging deep into his shoulder blades. It pokes through the fabric of his jacket and the smell of blood permeates the air around them. She shivers in it. "Don't touch me, you murderer."

"Caroline, just listen—" Klaus has a helpless look in his eyes as he tries to talk over her, but she slams him against the wall again.

"What makes you think I will?" Her breathing's starting to come out in quick bursts as she clings on to him, trying not to let her legs give way. "You killed Tyler. You told me you'd help him, promised me you'd fixed him—and then you _killed_ him."

Her knees shake and shudder and then suddenly it all stops as she starts to fall.

.

.

.

"Caroline, I don't think—"

Caroline presses a frantic finger against Rebekah's lips, widening her eyes just a smidge. She points at the ceiling above them, mouths _Alaric_.

Rebekah rolls her eyes, doesn't mention the fact that he sleeps like the dead (sleeps _like_ he's been dead a couple of times) and blows the lock off the door with just a flick of her fingers. The air around them immediately starts to smell musty and wet, and Caroline takes cautious steps down the stone steps, fingers running carefully against the wall.

Rebekah follows closely behind her.

"I'll have you know," she hisses, "that I think this is the worst idea you've ever had. Even worse than putting Elena on the top of the pyramid."

"Then why are you here?" Caroline turns to look back at her, but her feet slip and she feels herself falling backwards—Rebekah catches her at the last minute.

"Are you really asking me that?" Rebekah rolls her eyes as she uprights the younger vampire with one hand. The other is still clenched firmly around her crossbow, which Caroline eyes fearfully.

"Just in case," Rebekah had said with a chilling smile.

"This place reeks of something awful," Rebekah whines. "Like a wet dog that hasn't been let out in a week."

"Three weeks," Caroline corrects quietly as her eyes fall on Tyler's rumpled form in the corner of the room. The chains around his wrist, chest and ankles look bloody and raw, and Caroline feels something sick rising in her throat as she drops to her knees to rip off the chains. "Rebekah—help."

Rebekah wrinkles her nose but leans down anyway, taking off the chains with just one sweep of her hands. Tyler moans at her touch, and she quickly pulls her hands away. "What now?"

Caroline gestures to the door with her head, and props one of Tyler's arms around her neck. Rebekah snorts and pushes her off, grabbing Tyler around the waist and hoisting him up the stairs easily. Caroline peeks her head around the corner, the eerie silence ringing around her and settling in her bones. The sooner they get out of the Salvatore Dungeon of Torture and Doom, the better.

Something— _a name? Was it hers?—_ slips through Tyler's lips and she shushes him, runs a hand through his hair; presses soft kisses down his jaw. "Just a little bit more, Tyler. Stay with me."

"How sweet," Rebekah grunts as she all but throws his limp body across the hall and out the front door. "There—makes our job much easier."

"And _ours_ infinitely harder," says a voice in Caroline's ear, and suddenly she's being flung through the open door and out onto the grass as well. " _What the fuck is wrong with you_?" Damon yells in her face, and Caroline shuts her eyes—too close, too angry, no, stop it Damon, you don't understand, I was only trying to _help_ Tyler—she glances at him, and he's already on his feet, looking around with darkening eyes, something guttural and raw coming from his throat—

"Stefan!" Damon shouts, "He's getting up!"

There's a grunt from inside, and Stefan calls out, "A little preoccupied, Damon!"

A second later Stefan comes flying out as well, Rebekah appearing through the doorway and dusting off her palms. "I suggest you get off of her, Damon."

But Damon's not listening anymore, because Tyler's gotten Damon into a choke-hold, hands wrapping easily around his throat. Caroline kicks away, grasping at the cold grass and blinking in the moonlight. "Tyler, no!"

"You locked me up for three weeks and now you're hurting Caroline?" Tyler slams Damon against the grass. The veins around his eyes are starting to show and his fangs are whispering in and out. "Not cool."

"Stefan!" Damon calls again, kicking Tyler off. "The stakes—" An arrow sinks deep inside his thigh and he hisses, and Rebekah all but sings: "Oops. Was aiming for the Lockwood boy."

"Rebekah!" Caroline cries out, horrified. She lunges for Tyler, throwing her arms around him. "What are you doing?"

Rebekah shakes her head and steps closer. "He tried to bite Matt, Caroline. Tried to bite Damon, too. You _said_ he was better," she adds a little accusingly, already readying her crossbow.

"He is," Caroline begs, but Tyler's snarling in her arms, writhing and jerking and twisting to get away. "It's just—he's just a little disoriented—"

"He's a lot more than just disoriented, Caroline," Stefan says, crouching low like he's prepared to fight Tyler out of her grip. "He lost his mind trying to break free of Klaus' sire bond. You know it, we all know it."

 _No, he's lying, Tyler's okay, he really is, locking him up won't help, no,_ she shakes her head

Tears are starting to swim in her eyes as she grasps Tyler nearer, snarling as Damon tries to step closer. "I'm not going to let you hurt him." But even as she says it Tyler's gnashing his teeth at her face, twisting her arm behind her back and she gasps, because it _hurts_.

"Caroline!" Rebekah lets the arrow fly and it narrowly misses Tyler's head, burying itself in the far tree instead. Suddenly Caroline's sprawled on the grass, Damon pressing his hands everywhere, _Are you okay? Did he bite you? You idiot, are you hurt? God Blondie, did he bite—_

"Tyler—fucki— _no_!"

Caroline and Damon whip their heads around to see Stefan running faster than they've ever seen him run—but it's too late, Rebekah's already staggering, already clasping at the gash in her neck, already widening her eyes at the amount of blood that's trickling down her wrist, already swinging her free arm uselessly at Tyler as red drips from his lips down onto her collarbone, his eyes gleaming feral in the moonlight.

"Tyler," Caroline chokes out, and she wants to run, but Damon has her locked in place. "Tyler." Her shoulders shake and her mascara runs. "Tyler," she says again, and she feels Damon tightening his hold around her as her body wracks with sobs. Tyler. _Tyler_. _"Tyler!"_ and suddenly she's screaming it, tearing it through her throat because Tyler has his teeth around Rebekah's neck again, Tyler's stifling Rebekah's screams with his palm, Tyler's _drinking her blood_ —

Damon, Stefan and Caroline reach them at the same time—Damon's thrown Tyler into the bushes, running back inside the house to check on Alaric—knocked out cold by Rebekah—and Stefan's already kneeling down, already wrapping an arm around Rebekah, pushing strands of hair out of her eyes. "Shh, it's going to be alright—we're gonna get you to Klaus— _shh_ , no, don't cry—"

Caroline turns to Tyler and swallows, reaching out a shaky hand, pressing it down against his chest. His eyes are closed and his face is still smeared with blood, but in the darkness it could be chocolate. In the darkness he could be sleeping, exhausted from a day of messing around with Matt. In the darkness he could still be Tyler, sweet Tyler would go to great lengths to be free from Klaus, to finally _be_ with her. More tears slide down her cheeks as she pushes his hair away from his forehead; wipes away some of the blood with the sleeve of her favourite cashmere sweater. She's about to brush away some of the dirt from his t-shirt when his eyes open suddenly.

They're not Tyler's eyes. They're yellow and beady and so _animal_ , and they're looking directly at her.

Tyler pulls her hand closer to his chest, breathes in deep when her curls tickle his face. Puts his nose to the column of her neck and takes another deep breath. exhales slowly. She feels his hot breath ghosting her neck and she knows she should scream, knows she should back the hell of, but she's too perplexed; too shaken to pull away.

And then he smiles, and it's chilling—all teeth and pointed fangs.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she can hear her father whispering that long-forgotten poem, the one she can't remember the words to anymore, and she smiles valiantly, thinking _Oh what a lovely way to die_. With the cool grass on her knees and the stars in the sky, with her boyfriend's lips on her neck and her father in her eyes.

"Good bye," she half-whispers, half-sobs, and closes her eyes.

There's the burn when he bites into her, she had been expecting that. What she hadn't expected was how _painful_ it is, to be able to feel her veins tightening underneath her skin, to feel her body curl in on itself as he draws the blood out of her, sweet and slow—to feel the tremors from the tips of her toes to the throbbing in her neck, to want to scream out and cry but be unable to, because everything seems to be stoppered at the exact place where his teeth are breaking her skin.

Everything dims and she doesn't know if it's from the screaming in her head or the burning in her skin—all she knows is she sinks into it with ease, grasping at the darkness with relief as waves of something cold washes over her feet, dances around in it, until she comes to a slow stop. Death shouldn't be this freeing... should it?

She opens her eyes, and Tyler's teeth aren't tearing at her neck anymore, because Klaus is standing before her, shaking and yelling something inaudible, and then suddenly he's snarling and throwing Tyler down, and it's like the world's spinning in slow motion because she doesn't understand at all when Tyler lolls towards her, his lips moving wordlessly. She doesn't understand why everything is a ringing in her ears and not actual sounds. She doesn't understand when Klaus suddenly has his hand plunged deep into Tyler's chest, doesn't understand the look he's giving her—it's not one of permission, it's not apologetic, it's not remorse—it's just a long look, made longer with the night surrounding them.

And then Tyler's head is in her lap and Tyler's heart is in Klaus' hands, and suddenly the night is alive again—

but Tyler isn't.

.

.

**tbc**

.

.


	5. who knocks at my peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started writing this almost a year ago (ten months, to be exact. And the last time I updated this was the 2nd of February! Ikr), and obviously a lot of things have changed canon-wise. There are these fabulous new characters I hope don't get killed off (I mean – Vaughn. Let's talk about Vaughn. Or more specifically, let's talk about Vaughn and Rebekah. Is it a thing? I feel like it should be) and that I am dying to incorporate into this story somehow, but I guess there is a time and place for everything. And this isn't one of them. Thankfully, this story is way AU and doesn't follow canon storyline anyway.
> 
> And Jeremy getting killed off in the show. Did I call it (sort of. I mean.) or what?
> 
> (Unbeta'd, but) happy reading.

_circa 2012._

Sometimes Caroline doesn't feel like she belongs anywhere. With Stefan and Damon, maybe, but they didn't really  _belong_  together—not really—more like had the world crash down around them at basically the same time, so it was only natural for them to just fall into each other.

She definitely doesn't belong with the Forbes either, because when you belong somewhere, you want them and they want you and nothing in the world could possibly keep you apart (except her mother's heavy-duty job and her father's penchant for French men).

Tyler, with the summer sun bringing out the gold flecks in his eyes and lemonade wet on his upper lip is this first boy to ever say, "You belong with me", and with him looking so golden and so true, Caroline believes it with her whole heart. She replaces peeking into her mother's empty bedrooms at night with the feel of her back pressing against the door of Tyler's car and her father's  _I'm sorry I couldn't make it this weekend either, honey_ 's with Tyler's lips against hers, melting into the warm nights.

"I love you," Tyler calls, and she catches at his words that run with the wind as they cycle down Main Street, and when he falls in a heap on the sidewalk because he's too busy making sure she can catch up with him instead, she chides, "You shouldn't have looked back, you doof."

"But then I would've lost you." Tyler touches the spot on his torn jeans where, just moments before, blood had bled through. And when he smiles at her she almost wants to cry, because summer is almost over and she wants his smile to last forever.

Looking back, it's all so small town she wants to laugh, but if small town meant having your high school sweetheart hold his hand out to you on the night of homecoming and whispering in your ear a promise to love you forever as he twirls you around an extensively decorated gym, then she'll take it.

Fall comes.

The trees change colour.

Tyler leaves.

The arms that wrap around her waist as she stumbles drunkenly up the stairs aren't familiar or welcome in the very least, but it's the same heat that Tyler always gave out.

The thought of Tyler turns her stomach and twists in her heart, and it's that thought that is enough to make her wrench out of Klaus' grip. "Don't."

Klaus doesn't even make an effort to hide his eye roll. "Don't what, keep you on your feet?"

Caroline ignores this and skitters even further away, managing to catch her hand on the banister of the spiral stairway before she fell over. "You drove my boyfriend out of town."

Klaus' jaw clenches and she could have sworn his eyes flash yellow for just a fraction of a second. She peers at him through the hazy fog of her drunkenness but then puts it down to just that—her drunkenness.

"I didn't drive him anywhere,  _Caroline_."

Caroline doesn't know if it's the way he says her name, breaking it up into syllables that snap and sting, or if it's his hand reaching for her that makes her flinch.

Klaus' hand hangs in the little space between them, and he lowers his voice. "He left on his own accord."

"To break free of your stupid sire bond," Caroline fires back. "So in retrospect, it is all your damn fault." She says all this without a sway of her feet or a tremble to her voice, and she lifts her chin in defiance, but all it does is bring her face closer to his.

There's a moment where she can see nothing but blue, feel nothing but his breath tickling across her lips, hear nothing but the sound she makes when she swallows. Hard.

"Take me back to the Grill," she says through gritted teeth. "I can manage on my own."

Klaus runs his eyes over her red cheeks and bright eyes before saying, "Stefan told me to take you home."

Caroline wants to laugh then, because of  _course_ Stefan would leave her with a psycho-hybrid who, just months before, had snapped her boyfriend's neck and made him his weird sire boy. "This is  _not_ h—"

There's the sound of footsteps, a door opening and closing, the flick of a switch and suddenly the whole foyer is bathed with golden light.

"Nik?" Rebekah calls, blinking her sleep-addled eyes. They fall on Caroline. "What are you doing here?" Her hair falls in waves down the back of her white nightgown, and she sees the way they're standing. Not touching.

She sees the way her brother's fingers are just a hair's breadth away from Caroline's own. Sees the way Caroline's ballet flats are always two feet away from Nik's own shoes.

Never touching.

She puts two and two together.

"Go to bed, Nik," Rebekah says and leans over the banister. "I'll take care of her."

"I'm fine," they both snap at the same time. Rebekah sends her brother a pointed look and he flashes her an irritable one, but he leaves anyway. Rebekah expects her brother to look back at Caroline, but he doesn't.

In the silence that follows, Rebekah just props her chin in her hand and gazes down at her blonde pseudo-friend.

Caroline huffs, taking in Rebekah and her raised eyebrow and her straight lips. "What?" she growls, tired of people staring.

Rebekah shakes her head. "Well?"

"I'm fine," Caroline says again, but this time it's tired and drawn out. She bats her hair out of her eyes. "I just want to go home."

Rebekah laughs a soft one, but it echoes and bounces off the gleaming white walls. "Don't we all."

 

 

.

.

.

 

 

Oh, it's such an  _Elena Gilbert_ thing to do: your childhood friend loses his mind, bites your childhood sweetheart, rips your brother's heart out, goes on a mad rampage about town, and you decide to mask all that doom and gloom, all that grief, with—

"A wedding?"

Stefan's sitting on her windowsill, an stiff ivory card in one hand, the other hand resting against the side of his face in what appeared to be confusion. Caroline struggles to sit up against her pillows, her blankets bunching up at her ankles. She waits for Stefan to read the elegant wording stenciled onto the invitation aloud.

" _Dear Mr Salvatore_ ," Stefan reads, " _the honour of your presence is requested at the wedding of Elena Gilbert and Matthew G. Donovan—_ " There is a pause as Stefan catches Caroline's eye.

The pause stretches into a silence that is much longer than necessary, and after a while Caroline shifts slightly in her bed, and Stefan goes to her without needing an invitation. He sits there, back against her headboard, and she lies beside him, playing with the remnants of her used Kleenex, rumpled from tears that have dried out.

A few hours pass, and the world passes along with it, but Caroline's room is still. They are lying next to each other, Stefan and Caroline, but they also not next to each other. Neither of them say a word. The curtain does not sway as it usually would (the window is closed, from the swell of thunder and the gush of rain, or more suitably, closed off to the rest of the world), and the doorbell does not ring.

The rest of Mystic Falls may cry from astonishment, or relief, or hope, or whatever emotion a wedding might incite (and especially one of Matt and Elenas, Oh how lovely, oh those poor darlings with no family, oh those dears who have lost so much, they are so lucky to have each other, don't you think?), but Caroline counts the tick of the clock hanging from her wall and Stefan reads the invitation again and again.

"I guess they're finally doing it," Caroline says. Her voice is a croak from days of disuse. "That part we hate. The part where the rest of their life unfolds and all you can do is watch."

Stefan props the card against Caroline's lamp. "Shit sucks."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Doesn't this feel like old times?" Rebekah's voice goes down smooth like the 1928 Krug they're sipping (or chugging, which seemed to be the case for her two drinking companions, she notes with a dainty sniff of her nose) even though there isn't cause for celebration at all.

"Your hair's still the same, so that's something," Damon offers flatly, not bothering with the delicate champagne flutes and grabbing the bottle from her,  _bottom's up_. "You would think you'd at least try something new after a century."

Rebekah scowls. "There hasn't exactly been time for makeovers, no thanks to you three." She makes a grab for the bottle but Stefan beats her to it, raising his eyebrows.

"I assume you're talking about the merry little chase you've got us on?" Stefan swigs from the bottle and passes it to Rebekah, who huffs a thanks. Their champagne flutes lay forgotten in a pile, along with Rebekah's heels.

The gritty feel of cement against her feet remind her that this is real, that she's celebrating her birthday swigging expensive champagne by the Seine, straight from the bottle, with the two Salvatore boys on either side of her, all animosity and snarky quips. She's spending her birthday with her hair being messed up by wind picking up the breeze from the river, with the pale skin on her arms painted golden by the lights that line the river, and if she strains her ears she swears she can hear some drunk man belting out La Vie en Rose.

It's sort of romantic, she thinks—but then her elbow brushes against Damon's and he's harping at her to  _keep her handsy hands to her handsy self—_

and also sort of sad.

After a hundred years of chasing she'd been—not gonna lie—expecting something different, to say the least. Maybe an impressed look or two for having caught up to them (but if she's being honest with herself Nik would have 'caught up' with them twenty years ago, but he's such a drama queen and wanted a grand entrance); at the very least less hostility from Damon. She grips the bottle so hard the neck shatters – but doesn't break – and she gripes, "Your tie is stupid."

Damon frowns down at the raw silk Caroline had practically strangled him with earlier. "But they match my eyes."

Rebekah blows her laughter out of her nose and shakes her head. "It's my one thousand and one hundred and seventeenth birthday—"

("Would you like some champagne with that mouthful?" Damon asks, gesturing to the bottle.)

" _—_ and this is how I'm spending it." Rebekah leans back and thinks of all the years Kol would mysteriously show up after a whole year of silence; how Elijah would wake her up early in the morning with his quiet smile and a gift in his hand - one year it was a nine-hundred-year-old letter in a dirty glass bottle saved from Finn's pirate days, another year it was a blue swallowtail butterfly just about to break out of its cocoon (Rebekah's still not sure how he managed to time it).

And Nik had painted her once.

Yes,  _her_ , with his brush tickling ever so when they glide up her arm and down her sides and across her face, dabs of colours here and there, her giggling mingling with the sound Nik's brush makes when he sloshes them in the dirty paint water. She ends up a butterfly, dazzling and bright, and she thinks she sees her brother smile.

That was, of course, before Tyler had bitten her and it all went to hell.

She'd sat in the back of the church and silently watched as Elena had walked down the aisle, a rose-blushed dream with flowers in her hair. She had no father to give her away so Alaric was doing the honours, looking as proud as any father would. He gives her away with eyes shining with what he would not admit to be tears, and Elena's eyes were shining as well, and you could see them because she wore no veil. Veils were used as a symbol of purity and virginity, Rebekah scoffs, and Elena, Rebekah had decided, was undeserving of one.

And then Elena and Matt were exchanging vows, and when Matt leans in to whisper an  _I love you_  before going in for the kiss – tender and sweet, just long enough for the ladies in the front pews to sigh into their delicate lace handkerchiefs, for the photographers to capture a picture that would inevitably be shown off to little Elenas and Matthews of the generations to come, for the boys (now men, Rebekah supposes) to smile to themselves and punch each other lightly on the arm, almost as if to say:  _Who's next_?

Long enough for Rebekah to catch Stefan, Matt's lone best man, looking down at his feet for a fraction of a second before joining in on the applause. Long enough for the image to be burned into Rebekah to think: that was her kiss.

That was her kiss, and Elena Gilbert had taken it from her, framed photographs and crying grandmothers and all.

The whole church seems to glow in the late afternoon sun, and the warmth that Elena is exuding spills onto every vestige of the vast chapel, illuminating even the darkest corner in which people pretended not to notice Rebekah and Nik sitting. The kiss ends and their foreheads touch, and Rebekah, with delicate hands balled into tight fists, looks over at her brother instead. He's sitting next to her, his face a blank canvas.

"This is all your fault," Rebekah says to her gloved hands. Tyler, Jeremy, Elena getting married—Nik's fault, all Nik's fault. Last year she had been the one Caroline had lifted right at the top of the pyramid, the one Matt had run to after a glorious touchdown, the one who absolutely reveled in the glaring lights of the stadium.

Today, she's sitting at the back of a church. Too bitter to cry, too angry to do anything but to blame her brother, whose brilliant plans for the world ended in his brash desire and petty jealousy over a girl.

"Take a good look at Caroline,  _Nik_ ," she says through her teeth. Caroline is holding on to Bonnie's arm, and they're both laughing, both jumping up and down in their heels as people whoop and cheer and holler all around them. "Go on, look."

At her sharp tone, Nik does. His silence serves as a question. ( _Why_?)

"She's not looking at you." Only then could Rebekah manage a smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I wasn't going to kill her, if that's what you were wondering."

It's not, she wants to say, but she's too tired. She just shakes her head instead. She doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to listen anymore—all she wants to do is go home.

And not home in Le Marais, but  _home_  home—where Tyler first kissed her on the porch, where Bonnie had accidentally burned part of her table in a baking experiment gone wrong, where Matt had watched countless games when his TV wouldn't work, where Stefan would go when he had nowhere to go to, where Damon would go when he was looking for Stefan, where Liz would come home and expect a very sleepy human Caroline (and later, an alert and worried vampire Caroline) waiting, where Rebekah had had her very first sleepover and where Klaus had his last.

She hadn't thought about home in years. Not since she'd snuck back, hours after Elena's funeral, not since she smelled the freshly laid earth and the smell of the rain that would soon fall, not since she heard the sound of heavy boots crunching against the frozen grass of 2am, not since she laid a hand on Damon's back as it shudders the way it hasn't for a long time.

"We're not supposed to be here," Damon says.

"We made a promise," he'd said.

She kneels down next to him. "And yet."

Caroline thinks she'll never get used to the sight of Damon breaking right before her, of his wet eyes determined not to meet hers. He lays his rose down and stands up, bones creaking and weary. "' _Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be'_ ," he reads quietly the engraved wording on her tombstone. "She taught high school literature, Caroline. High school  _literature_ ," he nearly spits out. "I could have given her the world, but she settled. That's all she did. She settled."

"Damon," Caroline says harshly, but he cuts her off.

"She's not here anymore, Care." He shrugs her warning hand off his shoulder. "I can't hurt her anymore. She can't feel, she can't care. Because she's dead." He looks up at the night sky, at the trees surround the compound, anywhere but the matching tombstone next to Elena's.

 _Until the morning of Eternity_ , it reads. Caroline feels hot tears prick the corners of her eyes. "Damon," she says again, quieter this time.

"I'm going to find her, Caroline," he promises, eyes bearing into hers. "I'm going to find her, and then—and then…"

"And then what, Damon? Huh?" She shoves him back and he stumbles. "Make her choose you? Make her love you? You can't keep doing that. You think that would make it better, make it hurt less?" Caroline closes her eyes, thinking of Damon's feverish explanation of curses and doppelgangers from a drunken night forever and one years ago. "You're not doomed to fall for doppelgangers who don't fall for you, Damon. It's you. It's all in your head."

" _It's the person, not the face_ ," he whispers to himself the words Caroline had told him all those years ago. "But the longer it gets, the harder it is to tell the difference, Care."

"They're different people who share the same face." Caroline says flatly, eyes still shut. She doesn't mean to sound cruel, but she does. "Katherine is not Tatia and Elena is not Katherine. We've been over this a hundred times. You know this."

"Then why are you so worried?" She can barely hear his voice over the sound of the crickets singing, so she opens her eyes to see him walking away, but still facing her. "I say it's worth finding out. Once and for all."

And then he turns around.

The darkness that surrounds her is much like that night all those years ago, and she looks at Klaus. "I wasn't."

"I'm going to go ahead and assume you already knew I wouldn't. Which begs the question…" Even without looking, Caroline knows that trade smile of his is growing on his lips. "…why are you here, then?"

"Why do you ask questions you clearly already know the answers to?" Caroline heaves a sigh and looks up at the night sky. "Damon only saw her for like, a second. Stefan never saw her at all. But you knew, didn't you?" She closes her eyes. "Todd had a twin. She was stillborn. She couldn't be the doppelganger."

"Keeping tabs, love?" But then the smirk dies away. "You didn't tell the Salvatores."

"I wasn't supposed to…" Caroline trails off, and she props her chin in her hands. "We made a promise. Don't look back, but don't—"

"Don't forget. Charming. And you came because—"

"I wanted to know why you were pretending anyway. Ties suit you better than lies," Caroline says, her breath a song, but her eyes cut like she wants an answer.

Klaus just shrugs. "The Salvatores are predictable. Once they caught wind of a doppelganger surfacing – artfully spread by Finn, by the way. You know how he loves this trade – all I needed was your inquiring little mind." He makes the mistake of looking into her eyes. "I know you, Caroline. You were bound to wonder. You knew I wouldn't let darling Elena out of my radar."

"Screw you." Caroline laughs once, too tired to upset tables and throw candlesticks, things she really wanted to do. "Just… screw you, Klaus." Todd's uncanny resemblance to Elena was all Stefan and Damon needed to be convinced, but the fact that Klaus didn't already have her ensnared in his twisty little hands should have been a telltale sign.

Klaus would have never let them,  _led them_ , so close to the real doppelganger. Not in a million years. Klaus' toys were his own; they weren't for showcase or for sharing.

"You knew I had doubts."

"And it festered away in your mind, growing with each decade." Klaus inches closer. "It's a relief, isn't it? To be able to think of something other than Tyl—"

"Shut up," she snarls, looking away. "His name is poison in your mouth."

Klaus' eyes narrow and his next words cut. "And what about when Stefan says it? Damon?" He steps even closer. "If I'm not mistaken – and I rarely am, mind you –  _they_  were trying to stop him as—"

"They didn't make me promises they didn't intend on keeping," Caroline hisses, all the heaviness in her bones leaves her. They're standing eye to eye, bodies still with suppressed rage. The only giveaway was Caroline's hands in tight fists at her sides, trembling ever so slightly.

Blue eyes locked onto blue. For a while, it seems neither wanted to be the first one to look away, until—

"Caroline." It's not his hand cupping her face, but the way her name forms in his mouth, so gently (so defeated), that catches her by surprise.

"Caroline," he says again, and there's even a trace of regret there. "I think it's time you knew."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damon goes back to the apartment. The night's taken its toll on him, a heaviness in his chest. Not even the endless amount of alcohol had been able to dull his senses enough to let his guard down—not when Caroline was off gallivanting with Klaus.

He's about to cross the street (he could have ran, vamp sped, hailed a cab even, but the sheer mechanisms of walking – one foot in front of the other, repeat repeat repeat – and the solidary sound of his footsteps is a faint comfort) when he sees her.

Standing in a pool of gold made from the streetlight, waiting for Alphonse to finish making her sandwich. Damon wonders vaguely if her tour guide's the one who told her Alphonse was the best food vendor on this side of town, but her bus isn't around. Nor is her friend.

Damon wonders vaguely if he should call Stefan, but his feet are already taking him across the street. A

Alphonse hands her her sandwhich wrapped in paper, and she thanks him, turning to walk down the street. Damon's feet pick up their pace, and in his urgency he calls out to her. "Hey—Todd!"

When the girl looks at him alarmed, Damon realizes too late that he's not supposed to know her name.

* * *

"Stefan," Rebekah sighs, and dances and twirls right into his arm. He's humming a song under his breath and she's laughing drunkenly, breathlessly, into his ear. She hangs onto him, almost for dear life, and he holds on to her so gently you might think she was made of glass, this thousand year old vampire.

"Stefan," she says again, her chin resting on his shoulder. The moon casts her in a silver glow and she looks ethereal.

He hums a response, his lips almost forming a smile as they dance.

"Do you ever regret it?" Their footsteps make echoed sounds against the rooftop. "Not telling her?"

"Telling who, Rebekah?"

"Caroline," Rebekah whispers, eyes screwed shut. Stefan stiffens and stills, but his arms still cradle her body against his. "Nik's been carrying your little secret around for a hundred years. He's not going to te—"

"He owes me enough not to," Stefan says. His face is a stone.

Rebekah tuts, snuggling her face further into his neck. "You're his friend. Deny it all you want, deny  _him_  all you want, but Nik doesn't forget easily."

None of us do, Stefan wants to say, but doesn't. He waits for Rebekah to make her point, as she always does.

"It pains him, you know." Rebekah is looking up at him, reproachful now. They're not swaying anymore, just standing there, on the rooftop of Rebekah's rented hotel, just holding each other. "Not that I care, since he probably deserves it, but he feels." Her fingers dig into his shoulder and she looks worried suddenly. "Sometimes I'm scared he feels too much."

"Rebekah—" Stefan starts, but she shushes him. Her finger is pressed against his lips and she leans in close.

"He told me to distract you," Rebekah says. "And even if he didn't say it, I know he's sorry."

The words almost don't come. "Sorry for… what?"

Rebekah steps out of his hold, looking apologetic. "He's telling her. Right now."

There's no time for a response as his mind seizes and his feet stumble as he takes one step back, two steps, and then breaks out into a run.

Rebekah stays where she is. The moon still shines down on her.

 

.

.

 

_Stefan is pacing._

_Shoulders hunched, eyes down, hands behind his back. Maybe his mind is still a frenzy from his brush with Tyler (_ with death _). He moves restlessly, one corner to another. Never stopping._

_Like a never-ending pendulum, Klaus thinks, swirling his drink lazily in his crystal glass._

_._

.

 

Stefan is running.

The night rushes up to wrap him in the silence of the stars above him and the street stretch ahead of him. Buildings cease to exist and the sky melts into the Seine as he runs, tie streaming behind him.

He never stops.

 

.

.

 

The ride back is silent.

The space between Klaus and Caroline is never-ending.

Caroline sinks back into the leather seats, counting the blocks left until she spots her own apartment building. Klaus hadn't said a word since the restaurant; just held out his hand and said _Come_. She'd followed, but kept her hand at her side.

The car stops. Klaus looks at her.

 

.

.

 

_"Klaus." Stefan is hunched down in his seat, hands pressed flat together. With his eyes closed, he could be praying, but his eyes are trained on his._

_Klaus shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He wants to open the window to let some of the tense air out, but it's raining outside – hard – and his painting haven't quite dried yet._

_Stefan opens his mouth and the truth spills out, and Klaus remains in his seat unmoving, not even to take a sip of his drink. His ice melts down into his scotch, and at the end of it, he frowns. "This isn't your conventional favour."_

_"It has to be done. At this rate, it's the only choice we have left. And in case you haven't noticed," Stefan adds_ _dryly, absentmindedly rubbing at a patch of dried blood he hadn't gotten off his neck yet, "this isn't your conventional problem."_

.

.

 

Caroline's standing in the middle of her living room, finally showing signs of distress. Her eyes are wide and she can taste blood where her teeth had bitten down into her lower lip. She wants to pace – it works for Stefan – but her feet are rooted to the floor.

"You're lying," she says, hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her dress. Her voice doesn't tremble, and she's glad for that. "Why should I even believ—you're a killer and a liar."

Klaus stands by the window, hands in his pockets. He just watches her.

"Don't look at me like that," Caroline snaps. "Pity isn't in your vocabulary."

"It was," Klaus says quietly, "when Stefan asked me to—"

"Just shut up!" Caroline cups her hands over her ears, and if the situation had called for it Klaus would have rolled his eyes at her childishness. But it did not, so he did not. "Shut up shut up shut up."

 _Shut up,_ she thinks savagely _, shut up, don't say anything, you're lying, no, be quiet, shut up._ She bends down, arms wrapping around her torso. It's getting harder to breathe, but since she doesn't need to she stops altogether. Her cheeks are wet.

Klaus moves towards her, a hand outstretched. "Caroline, I—"

The door bursts open, and Stefan stands in the doorway, looking worn and windswept. His eyes dart from Caroline, to Klaus, and to Caroline again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Care," is all he says and Caroline straightens up. She tries to smile; fails spectacularly.

"Tell me it isn't true, Stefan," she says, still in her spot in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the things they'd collected, things they kept over the years. The frayed throwpillows from Liz's room, Damon's ornate knick knacks, Stefan's journals. Paintings and windchimes and first-edition books. Graduation caps and doctorates. The Jar. Things that could, by all means, transform this once bare room into a home, but doesn't quite succeed.

Stefan takes a deep breath, plans on telling her exactly what to hear, but then he says, "It's true."

The breath goes out of him, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly, even as Caroline builds herself up taller. "N-no. No way. Come on, Stefan." She looks at him, an urging look in her eyes. "Come on," she finishes, her voice of that girl they'd left behind in Virginia so long ago.

"Come on," Klaus says as well, but his voice scratches like silk in the darkness of the room.

"I asked…" Stefan stops. The way Caroline is looking at him, so earnest and so blue, makes him break. He can't look away.

Caroline's gaze begins to waver. "Stefan?" she asks hoarsely.

Stefan takes another breath that fills him all the way up, and lets the hundred-year-old cat out of the bag. "I asked Klaus to kill Tyler."

 

 

 

**tbc**

 


End file.
